Trey didn't stand. He stiffened when O'Cleary walked behind him, gripped his shoulders, and leaned down.

"You're a good guy, Falkirk, don't get me wrong." He pressed down, hard, when Trey tried to squirm away. "But this old guy, he wants you pretty bad, all right? God knows why, but he does. So you find him, okay? Talk to him, find out what he wants, maybe you're the long-lost Duke of Something, who the hell knows?" He lowered his voice to a whisper. "Who cares? But I don't want him in my casino anymore, you understand what I'm saying? Tell you the truth, he spooks the guests, he spooks me, and I don't like being spooked. Take care of it, you hear me? Take care of it. Now."

2.

Trey didn't watch O'Cleary leave; he watched his hands instead, white-knuckled where they gripped the edge of the table. Then slowly, very slowly, they slid into his lap.

Staring at the empty plate, not seeing a thing.

Not thinking; barely breathing.

Finally pushing away from the table-and standing, one hand on the back of the chair to keep himself from falling because suddenly his balance wasn't working very well.

He should have said, "Look, Dodger, I told you I don't know any old man, I don't know why he wants to see me, but he isn't my problem, he's yours. You want someone to take care of it, do it yourself."

He should have said, "Go to hell, O'Cleary, I've got more important things to do than chase around after some old nut in a stupid cowboy hat."

He should have said, "What do you want me to do, stand in the middle of the casino and shout here I am, you old fart, come and get me? Is that what you want?"

He should have said...something.

The change in O'Cleary had taken him by surprise, and the none-too-subtle warning had startled him into a temper he didn't dare give a voice.

But he should have said . . . something.

He took a step and nearly fell, grabbed the chair again and dropped into it heavily, blinking, wiping a trembling hand across his eyes. Paying no attention to the handful of other customers who undoubtedly figured he was close enough to drunk that the security guy had to give him a quiet talking-to. A sideways glance in his direction; a smirk; a whisper.

He reached for the glass of soda, gripped it tightly without lifting it because his hand shook too hard, and he wasn't sure he wouldn't drop it. A swallow, an inhalation, and the trembling eased.

someone comes looking God damn, he thought, and drank quickly and deeply, taking some of the tiny hollow ice cubes into his mouth. Crunching them between his teeth. Shuddering at the cold, hearing the sound of the chewing resonate in his skull, reminding him oddly of steady footsteps in a snow-covered field.

someone comes looking Another drink emptied the glass, and he reached into it, pinched an ice cube between thumb and forefinger and pressed it against his brow, holding it there with his palm until it melted. Drying the numb skin with the back of his hand. Wiping the back of his hand across his thigh.

This, he thought, is ridiculous.

No; it's past ridiculous into ludicrous.

Some outlandish old man is looking for him, for whatever damn reason, so O'Cleary overreacts and gets bent out of shape, for whatever damn reason, and now he feels as if a battalion of geese has marched over his grave.

For whatever damn reason.

You do know what it is, he told himself.

"Right," he muttered. "Right."

He stood again, waited, then made his way out of the coffee shop. Slowly. Carefully. Walking as if he'd just been released after six months in a hospital bed, the fearful anticipation of falling, keeping his head down, his stride short.

He wasn't quite sure what to do next. He didn't feel up to taking on another casino and adding to the slight heft he felt his pocket needed, and he damn sure wasn't about to search for that old guy, no matter what O'Cleary wanted. He supposed he'd kind of like to know what the big deal was, but right now he had more important things to worry about, like, for example, finding a new place to live before they shut Emerald City down.

He told himself that one more time, and gave up because he didn't believe it.

someone comes looking and you're angry at yourself and you're angry at the old man At the escalators/staircase, he moved to one side and looked down and out over the casino. It was quiet down there now, normal world quiet. Most of the tables had been shut down, most of the players were concentrated mostly at the slots and around one roulette wheel. In the limited area he could see he counted less than two dozen people, a few still with air-filter masks, but not one of them wearing a straw cowboy hat.

No voices now, just the occasional clatter of coins and the tinny electronic music.

Too many lights for shadows.

The hell with it, he thought, took the staircase down, and made his way toward the exit, every so often turning to walk backward a few steps. Just in case.

When he wasn't stopped or hailed, he zipped up his jacket and went outside, shivering at the natural chill in the air. By the time he reached the pickup, almost the only vehicle remaining in the huge lot, the goose-and-grave dread had slipped away, leaving him with a grin because once again he had won another few dollars for his old-age fund. Not bad; not bad at all for a guy who can't do anything else with his life.

The engine rumbled softly.

He waited a few moments, watching the exit, watching a great white limousine pull up to the canopy, watching a half-dozen people in evening domes climb out, laughing, holding on to each other, looking small beneath the high towers of Excalibur. They were still there when the limo slipped away, and he wondered why they didn't go in. Enjoying the evening, probably; they didn't want it to end.

Then one of them accidentally triggered the automated doors, and with one last look at the sky, they all bundled reluctantly inside, arms around each other, still laughing, still chattering, but not quite as loudly, the excitement slowly draining, leaving bittersweet exhaustion behind.

He grunted.

One of these days, he promised himself as he switched on the headlamps, he would take some of that stash under the bed, buy himself a tux, and do the town right. A reward, not an indulgence. Something to think about; why the hell not.

But he didn't move.

His hands on the steering wheel, palms slipping around the rim, down and up, down and up again.

Waiting for the old man to appear in the doorway.

"Jesus," he whispered.

But he still didn't move, Down and up, and down and up again.

The engine rumbled softly, patiently, and the heater warmed the cab. Without taking his gaze from the hotel, he reached over to switch on the radio, turn the volume down, blinking stupidly at it when he heard dreamed last night His lips moved i was on the boat to heaven and his left heel tapped the beat through a prolonged burst of static . . . and the people all said and his hands slipped around the steering wheel rim, down and up sit down down and up again.

Funny thing about the desert this time of year, all that sun during the day, all that ice at night. Funny thing, how you ought to be singing at the top of your voice, you know this song, your mother used to sing it all the time, but your lips move without sound and your heel taps without sound and that thing in your gut still has cold wings.

Down and up.

sit down Tires and brakes shrieked out on Tropicana Avenue, and he started, stiffened, bracing for the sound of shattering glass and crumpled metal because you remember * * * *

a night the summer after you first arrived to stay for good, a night when you stood on the sidewalk outside the Mirage, the red-water volcano erupting loudly behind you every fifteen minutes, traffic on the boulevard slowing down to watch the display, and one driver loses concentration and jumps the curb and should have crushed you between the fender and the low wall that marks the hotel grounds. But it didn't happen. You were bumped, nothing more, and it took half an hour to calm the driver down because he kept telling you over and over that you should have been dead * * * *

and even now he can't help wincing at the memory, recalling that at the time he thought the man was right.

The only one he ever told was Jude Levin, and the best she could do by way of explanation was, "One of those things, Trey, just one of those things. If you start looking for something else, you'll drive yourself crazy."

She was right, of course, and he had indeed chalked it up to one of life's wondrous miracles, with maybe a little help from his mother's gold chip, but somehow he couldn't bring himself to tell the story again. It was, he had decided, one of those "you had to be there" times, because the telling couldn't come close to the terror he had felt as the car bore down on him and he hadn't been able to move.

sit down you're rockin the boat The song ended abruptly, swamped by more static, louder, almost rhythmic, and as he reached out to shut the radio off, a dark figure stepped through the open doors. He leaned forward, staring intently, holding his breath, finally rolling his eyes when he recognized the security uniform. It was one of the guards who checked the keys of those who wanted to get to their tower rooms. Sneaking a cigarette while on duty, it looked like, and Trey grinned, released the hand brake, and headed for home.

Halfway there, after finding another station to fill the cab with noise, he remembered the bread, groaned, considered feigning forgetfulness, and sighed surrender at an image of Moonbow's disappointed face.

He couldn't do it.

It took him twenty minutes to find a convenience store, bought the bread, a few things for himself, and drove the rest of the way home at speed. Humming to himself, unable to keep from looking in the rearview mirror to see if he was being followed.

3.

There was a full moon over the desert, and a slow steady wind that slipped down from the mountains.

Trey stopped at the line of mailboxes hammered to a wood plank facing the only street in Emerald City. He tugged down the door of his, fumbled around inside, and pulled his hand back, empty. It didn't bother him. At least there weren't bills or bothersome sales brochures. At least there wasn't the official eviction notice that would send him back to the streets in the one place he didn't want them.

"You know," he said as he pulled the truck around, disgusted at the way his mood kept shifting, "you keep this up, pal, you're going to end up slitting your wrists or something."

He drove slowly, keeping the engine to a low grumbling, switching off the headlamps on a whim, to let the moon show the way. A young man's dare, but the moonlight left no color behind. All the porchlights were off, the windows all dark, and had he been a stranger he would have sworn there was no life here, none at all.

Something urged him to lean on the horn, just to see what would happen. He laughed silently, knowing full well the trouble he'd be in, except with the kids. A nice thought, but never mind. So he backed the truck into the carport, and sat for a few moments while the engine ticked down and the night's chill seeped in and goose-flesh traveled slowly along his arms.

Strange night, he thought; hell, a strange day.

But when he yawned so hard his jaw popped, he rubbed his eyes briskly and ordered himself to bed. He'd think about it in the morning, when his brain wasn't riding on fumes and, with luck, his moods would have finally settled.

He opened the door, winced at the slow squeal of a hinge demanding oil, and reached in to grab the plastic bag of groceries.

"Thanks," he said to the dashboard, to the truck, and dragged the bag toward him, straightening as he did, and whacked his head against the ceiling's metal edge. The impact wasn't hard, but it was hard enough, and he cursed as he backed away from the cab, rubbing his scalp gingerly with his free hand.

"I said thanks, for God's sake," he muttered sourly as he swung onto the porch. "Damn."

Someone had taped an envelope to the front door. He shook his head and pulled it free, shoved it unopened into his hip pocket. Moonbow, no doubt, with another drawing for the invisible topiary. The last one had been for a miniature Mt. Rushmore. This one was probably Hoover Dam. A sweet kid, but she didn't know when to quit. He'd read it when he got up, and figure out a way to let her down easy.

His left hand was on the doorknob, when he heard the footsteps.

He turned his head slowly to look up the street, thinking it was one of the girls, sneaking out to see how the battle had gone; it wouldn't be the first time. Then frowning as he remembered O'Cleary and the old Englishman.

It was neither.

And it wasn't footsteps.

He didn't realize he had opened the door until he felt it swing inward. He let it go and used the hand to pass roughly over his face.

Moonlight cast a different kind of shadow, and at first he wasn't sure there was anything out there at all, that what he thought he had seen was nothing more than a flurry of dust the wind had kicked up.

Movement changed his mind.

He eased away from the door, heading forward, squinting against_ the wind and the moon's unreliable illumination, nodding when he spotted the hind end of a horse as it walked toward the desert, braided tail swishing slowly side to side. On its back was Lillian Tarque; he'd know that hair anywhere.

Which, he immediately told himself, was impossible, because Lil could barely walk yet, much less get back in the saddle. Much less in the middle of the night.

A quick step to the edge of the porch, his mouth open to call her, ask her what was going on, but horse and rider had already moved out of sight.

He waited, heard nothing but the slow and even hoof-beats that faded, and were soon gone.

Not a sound, then.

Not a sound but the soft hiss of the wind coasting over the ground.

And there was no dust in the air where the animal had been.

You're dreaming, he thought, but he didn't move. Not for a long while. Not until the grocery bag gained weight and his vision began to blur and his head began to ache from staring so hard.

Still, he didn't move.

Tired as he was, as churned up as he was from O'Cleary and the casino, he was not, and never had been, prone to seeing things.

He waited, then set the grocery bag down and stepped off the side of the porch, hurried across the yard into the street, and walked slowly toward the end. He was no hunter, certainly no tracker, but he figured he'd be able to recognize a hoofprint when he saw it.

Just one was all he wanted.

He didn't find any.

By the time he reached the place where the street faded into the desert, he was shivering, and his back had begun to protest him bending over so much, but he sure wasn't about to go out there. He didn't much care for it in daylight; he sure wasn't going to traipse around there at night. Too many shapes he didn't recognize; too many ways to get himself in trouble.

So what did you see? he asked his shadow as he turned around. Wishful thinking? God knew, Lil deserved a break, and her stunt-riding job had been her life ... until the accident. He had seen her a couple of times at the Excalibur arena, had been impressed by her skill and enthusiasm if not the venue, yet he could only imagine how she felt now. He liked her, so maybe wishful...not thinking, maybe hoping. Maybe that's what it was: wishful hoping.

Or maybe he was just plain nuts.

When he drew even with Eula's place on his right, the professor's on his left, he stopped, struck once again by how deserted the street felt. How utterly silent it had become. How small he seemed under the huge moon. A spaceship could come down, snatch him up, carry him off to Saturn or some damn place like mat, and no one would ever know he'd been here tonight.

He took a step and looked at the ground behind him.

No print.

No one would know.