Before he left me there, Moy suggested, "Be a good boy, Axbrewder." He may've smiled.

"Keep your nose clean. If you're lucky, some day you'll make a nice pet for an older woman who doesn't know any better."

Sure thing, Sergeant, I muttered in silence as he moved off. That's sounds great. I can hardly wait.

I put off getting into the van because I didn't actually want to go. I couldn't stay on my feet well enough to help interrogate the club's patrons, that was obvious. Nevertheless I wanted to be there. I wanted to hear everything Moy dug up. Otherwise I might never know what it was. I'd already drawn on Marshal's favors pretty hard. They wouldn't stretch to cover releasing the results of an official interrogation. Presumably-innocent bystanders had rights that mere cadavers like Bernie lacked.

But Moy had already granted me more leeway than the law allowed. And I was in no shape to push my luck. If sitting down didn't clear my head, I might not be able to drive. I sure as hell didn't have what it would take to pay attention while the detective and his uniforms did their jobs.

Bowing to the inevitable, as they say, I groped out my keys and contrived to climb into the van. Once I'd turned the ignition, and the Plymouth sputtered to life, I let myself sag onto the steering wheel and rest for a while. Then I hit the lights, mostly to let Moy know that I was being a good boy, and considered the puzzle of getting a vehicle this size back out to the street.

Behind me, four more uniforms followed their flashlights into the alley. I let them catch up with Moy and Sternway before I began to inch the Plymouth tortuously around so that I wouldn't have to escape the cul-de-sac in reverse.

By the time I'd completed that inelegant maneuver, Moy had flashed his badge at the shutter in the metal door, and he and his men had taken Sternway inside.

Oh, well. So much for Indomitable Mick Axbrewder, the Private Investigator Who Never Says Die. I actually murmured "die" to myself for a couple of minutes, "die die die," like a chant, while I swayed along the alley to the street. Obviously losing my mind. But after that I tried to concentrate on the road. I didn't want to drive like a drunk as I strove to triangulate on my apartment.

The thought of an emergency room didn't hold much appeal. As I left the vicinity of the fight club, some disgruntled pugilist was probably saying, Turf Hardshorn? Shit, yes, I know him. But

I wasn't there to hear it. An emergency room would immobilize my chest and even give me drugs, but that wouldn't make me feel any better.

What the fuck are you doing?

Anson Sternway had saved my life.

If there'd been a nice warm womb handy, I would've squeezed into it somehow.

Naturally I wanted a drink. But I knew better. Booze didn't soften the slings and arrows of outrageous and so on. It just validated self-pity.

More by Divine Intervention than Inspiration, I eventually found my way into a part of Garner I recognized, where the streets and buildings were so brightly lit that they looked like bleached neoprene, and all-night "sports emporiums" offered their wares on every third corner.

After that, it was only a matter of time until I located the apartment.

A glow in the window announced that Ginny had left a light on for me.

Or she was still up.

I couldn't imagine how I felt about that.

By stages, I parked the van, locked it, and carried myself to the door of our apartment.

It wasn't locked. She hadn't gone to bed yet.

For all I knew, she wasn't alone.

To my own surprise, I found that I didn't actually care. Bracing one arm on the frame, I opened the door and let myself in.

She sat in the armchair by the phone, with a magazine she hadn't opened on the end table beside her. Her gunmetal gaze, as direct and uncomplicated as pistol fire, caught me before I'd crossed the threshold. Without appearing to move at all, she gained her feet and came forward. But when she reached me, she didn't say anything, or offer to help. Instead she simply closed the door after me while I moved to the couch and tried to sit down without wincing. Then she went back to her chair. Her eyes never left my face.

I closed my own for a minute, rested my head on the back of the couch.

By now I could tell that my ribs weren't broken. Un-convincingly I muttered, "I didn't expect to find you up. Is anytning wrong?"

"Brew, you look terrible." She sounded like she'd gone into another room. Or maybe my hearing had turned fuzzy. Before I

could think of a snappy retort, she added, "But in a good way."

I lifted my head to stare at her. If she were poking fun at me She looked serious, however. She even said, "I'm serious," as if I'd accused her of insulting me.

"I've seen you look terrible before. This is different."

I blinked, gaping like she'd lapsed into glossolalia. But the straight focus of her gaze didn't waver, and after a while I leaned back again.

She could see something that eluded me, so I decided to ignore it.

"I took a beating tonight," I told her.

"My own damn fault. I made about three too many bad decisions in a row."

"And?" she inquired carefully.

"And nothing. I got what I deserved."

Maybe she'd discovered intuition in my absence. Instead of demanding an explanation, she dropped the subject. With no change in her tone, she remarked, "I was hoping we could talk tonight."

"Why?" She had Marshal, didn't she? Why did she want to talk to me?

"I'm used to working with you," she said as if I'd responded reasonably.

"You help me think. Marshal gave me a case, and I can't make sense out of it."

This time I didn't gape at her. Tentatively I lowered my head to the arm of the couch, then gritted my confusion long enough to drag my feet off the floor and stretch out my legs. But even in that position I didn't have enough support to sustain me.

Marshal had given her a case and she wanted me to help her think?

While various hurts quarreled in my chest, I tried to understand myself. Somewhere deep inside so deep that ordinarily I could pretend that it didn't exist I ached to talk to her myself. Did I help her think? I knew exactly what that was like.

If she wanted to bridge the rift between us, the least I could do was let her try.

"I'm not really all here," I admitted.

"I hurt too much. But I'll give it a shot. Maybe I'll come up with something."

"Good."

I received the distinct impression that she leaned forward sharply in her chair that she was eager or anxious in ways that didn't have much to do with her case but I didn't turn my head toward her. In fact, I kept my eyes shut so that I wouldn't catch even a glimpse of her. If I let the look on her face distract me, I might not hear what she said.

"Professional Investigations," she began, "has a client named Mai Sternway," and my heart sank so fast that I hardly heard what came next.

"She hired us to protect her from her husband, Anson."

That unconscionable bastard, I thought meaning Marshal. He hadn't sent me to Bernie by chance. Or out of undifferentiated goodwill. And it was no accident that he'd been so helpful since. He'd set me up because he wanted me to feed him dirt about Sternway he'd admitted that. But not for his own sake. He'd done it for Ginny.