"h.e.l.l of a nice speech," said Jack.

"Rosa Maria Gambione can do that." Rosemary faced Bagabond.

"But what will they do when they find out who the a.s.sistant DA really is?" Bagabond frowned at the other woman. "You might as well step in front of an IRT."

"It's my choice. It's my heritage." She shrugged eloquently. "How else will I be able to make up for my father's acts?"

"A hundred Hail Marys," Jack said, weaving slightly. "Sorry about that."

"Your father chose to be what he was. You are not guilty of his sins." Bagabond grasped Rosemary's upper arm hard enough to hurt. "Your responsibility is to yourself."

"I don't see it that way." She pried Bagabond's hand from her arm and held it for a moment. "What I don't like is putting you and Jack into danger."

"Hey, we're used to it. We're aces, right?" Bagabond looked at Jack, who was swearing softly in French. Even in the poor light, they could see his skin starting to turn gray.

"How much longer?" Jack said.

"Just give it a little more time," Rosemary said rea.s.suringly.

"Yeah, sure." Jack winced. "d.a.m.n, it hurts."

He froze when he saw the limos parked in front. Spector took a deep breath and a moment to calm himself. It wasn't the Astronomer, couldn't be, not yet. What did he expect Mafiosi to arrive in, Hondas and Yugos?

He saw the neon lily and knew he was in the right place. He stepped inside and walked up the creaky wooden stairs. A large man blocked his way at the top. The goon was over six feet high and built like a defensive lineman, obviously mob muscle. He would have been nothing more than a side of beef to Spector, except that he wore mirrored sungla.s.ses.

"Reservations?" he asked, like it was the only word of English he knew.

"Yeah." Spector tried to slide past, but the man grabbed his bad wrist.

"Hold on."

Spector gritted his teeth. "You got some kind of problem?"

"We got a private party here tonight."

"Excuse me." An Oriental man put a hand on the hired muscle's shoulder. He looked at Spector, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly. "This gentleman is not with your party, but he does have a reservation."

"Will he stand for a frisk?" the big man addressed the question to the Oriental, then looked over at Spector.

"No problem." Spector unb.u.t.toned his coat and raised his arms. The man frisked him in a quick, professional manner. "You Secret Service or something?" Spector asked.

"Okay. Do what you want with him." The big man took a step back toward the stairs.

The Oriental, Spector figured him for a manager, hustled him to a table near the entrance to the private room. He handed Spector a menu and smiled weakly. "No trouble," he whispered. "They told me there would be no trouble."

"Only if the food's bad."

"Food is excellent." The manager signaled a waiter and turned away, seeming relieved.

The menu was hand-printed in gold and silver on some kind of fancy card stock, not laminated like he was used to. Spector opened it and sighed. Bad to worse, not only was everything written in Vietnamese, but there were no numbers next to the entrees. It would be hard enough trying to find something edible without having to p.r.o.nounce it, too.

"Excuse me, sir. Would you like some tea?"

Spector looked up at the waiter. "Sure." A little caffeine would be good for his reflexes when the time came.

The waiter turned over his cup with a white-gloved hand and filled it. "Would you like a few more minutes before you order?"

"Yeah. Come back in a while."

The waiter nodded, set the white china teapot on the table, and walked away.

Spector picked up the cup and blew the steam away from the surface of the tea. It looked a little greener than what he was used to. He took a tentative sip. The tea was almost too hot to be drinkable, but it was strong enough to do the job. He'd let it cool for a few minutes and then put away as much as he could. Spector smelled meat and vegetables cooking in hot oil. His stomach burned. He needed to get something solid into it soon.

Two people entered the restaurant. One was young; the other had to be pushing seventy. Both were wearing dark suits and hats. They talked briefly to the guard at the door, then disappeared into the private room.

Spector could hear their voices, but wasn't able to pick out enough words to follow the conversation. It didn't really matter. Most of them would be sleeping with the fishes before too much longer.

He turned back to the menu. If he ordered a beef dish, he could at least eat the meat.

Another group walked past the guard into the meeting room. h.e.l.lo, he thought, I'm Demise. I'll be killing your a.s.ses stone-cold dead tonight.

His waiter wandered back over. "You ready now, sir?"

"Yes. I'd like something with beef in it. You understand. Plenty of hot stuff, too." The waiter nodded and left.

Spector checked his watch. 7:45. He picked up his cup and sipped at the tea. When he was sure everyone was there he'd make his move.

The c.o.c.ktail hour was drawing to a close, and Curtis and his attentive staff were beginning to escort the guests to their tables when Jay Ackroyd finally showed up, with Chrysalis on his arm. Popinjay was in the same brown suit and loafers that he'd worn all day, tieless and a little rumpled. Chrysalis was wearing a glittering floor-length gown of metallic silver. It covered both b.r.e.a.s.t.s and one shoulder, but the slit up the side was high enough to make it perfectly apparent that she had decided to do without underwear. Her long legs flashed as she strode across the floor, muscles moving like smoke beneath transparent skin, the eyes in her skeletal face scanning the room as if she owned it.

Hiram met them by the bar. "Jay is as tardy as ever," he said. "I really ought to take him to task for delaying our meeting. I'm Hiram Worchester." He kissed her hand.

She seemed amused. "I'd guessed as much," she said in cultivated public-school tones.

"You're British!" Hiram said with a delighted smile. "My father was British. He fought at Dunkirk, you know. A male war bride, but not the kind who wore white."

Chrysalis smiled politely.

Ackroyd's smile was more cynical. "You two probably want to talk about Winston Churchill or Yorkshire pudding or something. I think I'll get a drink."

"Do that," Hiram said. Jay took the hint and wandered off to chat with Wallwalker. "I believe you have some information for me," Hiram said to Chrysalis.

"I might," she said. She glanced around. In a room full of celebrities and attractive women, she was drawing more than her share of glances. "Here? It seems rather public."

"In my office," Hiram said.

When the door was shut behind them, Hiram sank gratefully into a chair and gestured her to a seat. "May I?" she asked, producing a cigarette from a small handbag. He nodded. She lit up, and Hiram watched the smoke swirl inside her nasal cavities when she inhaled. "Let's dispense with the foreplay," Chrysalis suggested. "The sort of information you want is dangerous and expensive. How much are you prepared to spend?"

Hiram slid open his drawer, took out a ledger-sized checkbook, and began to fill out a check. She watched him carefully. He ripped it out and slid it across the desk.

Chrysalis leaned forward, picked up the check, looked at it. The ghostly musculature of her face worked as she raised an eyebrow. She folded the check in half and tucked it into her handbag. "Very good. That buys you a lot, Mr. Worchester. Not all, but a lot."

"Go on." He folded his hands on the desk. "You told Jay that Bludgeon was a part of something bigger. What?"

"Call them the Shadow Fist Society," Chrysalis said. "That's the name you hear on the street. It's as good as any other. It is a large and powerful criminal organization, Mr. Worchester, made up of many lesser gangs. The Immaculate Egrets in Chinatown, the Werewolves in Jokertown, Bludgeon's motley group along the waterfront, and a dozen others. They have allies in Harlem, h.e.l.l's Kitchen, Brooklyn, all over the city."

"The syndicate," Hiram said.

"Don't confuse them with the Mafia. The Shadow Fist Society is waging a very quiet war against the Mafia, in fact, and it is winning. It has fingers in a good number of pies, everything from drugs to prost.i.tution to the numbers, as well as some legitimate businesses. Bludgeon and his protection racket are one of the smallest and least significant parts of this operation, but a part nonetheless. If I were you, I'd be very careful. Bludgeon himself is cheap muscle, but his sponsors are ruthless and efficient people who brook no interference. If you annoy them, they'll kill you as easily as you might swat a fly."

Hiram made a fist. "They might find that difficult."

"Because you're an ace?" She smiled. "On a day like today, that seems precious little to cling to, dear boy. Do you remember that rather sensational gangland murder on Staten Island last year? It was in all the papers."

Hiram frowned. "One of those ace-of-spades killings, wasn't it? I vaguely recall seeing the headlines. What was it the victim called himself?"

"Scar," said Chrysalis. "An instantaneous teleport, and a Shadow Fist hit man. Well, he's done, but they have other aces working for them, if rumors can be believed. With powers as potent as his. Maybe as many as a dozen. You hear names. Fadeout. The Whisperer. Wyrm. For all you know, one of your guests out there might be a Shadow Fist, sipping your champagne while he ponders the best way to dispose of you."

Hiram considered a moment. "Can you tell me the name of the man at the top of this organization?"

"I could," Chrysalis said coolly. "But pa.s.sing along information like that could get me killed. Not that I wouldn't risk it for the right price, of course." She laughed. "I just don't think you have that much money, Mr. Worchester."

"Suppose I wanted to talk to them," he said.

She shrugged.

"Unless you can provide me with a name, you'll find I can easily stop payment on that check."

"We can't have that," she said. "Are you familiar with the name Latham, Strauss?"

"The law firm?" Hiram said.

"Attorneys from Latham, Strauss pried Bludgeon loose this afternoon, after Jay had teleported him into the Tombs. I had cause to ask a few questions about that firm today, and I discovered that the senior partner habitually takes a keen interest in men like Bludgeon. That seems strange, since his personal clients include a number of the city's richest and most powerful men, a few of whom have good reasons to be discreet. Do you understand what I'm telling you?"

Hiram nodded. "Do you have his address?"

She opened her handbag and produced it. Hiram's respect for her rose a notch. "I'll give you one more bit of advice for free," she added.

"And what is that?"

Chrysalis smiled. "Don't call him Loophole," she said.

CHAPTER 15.

8:00 p.m. p.m.

It had become something of a ritual, the way these dinners began.

When the rest of them were all seated, when the waiters had brought the soup and the diners had chosen their entrees, then all eyes went to Hiram Worchester. He filled a tall, thin gla.s.s with champagne, made himself light, lighter than air, and floated gently up to the high ceiling, next to one of his chandeliers. "A toast," he said, raising his gla.s.s as he did every year. His deep voice was solemn, sad. "To Jetboy."

"To Jetboy," Jetboy," they repeated in unison, a hundred voices all together. But no one drank. There were more names to come. they repeated in unison, a hundred voices all together. But no one drank. There were more names to come.

"To Black Eagle," Hiram said, "to Brain Trust, and to the Envoy, wherever he might be. To the Turtle, whose voice led us back from the wilderness. Let us all hope that he is safe and sound, that, like Mark Twain, the reports of his demise have been grossly exaggerated. To all of our brother aces, great and small, living and dead and yet to come. To the jokers in their thousands, and to the memory of the tens of thousands who drew the Black Queen."

Hiram paused, looked down on the room silently for a moment, went on. "To the Howler," he said, "and a laugh that could shatter brick. To Kid Dinosaur, who was never as small as the one who killed him. To the Takisians, who cursed us and made us like G.o.ds, and to Dr. Tachyon, who helped us in our hour of need. And, always, to Jetboy."

"To Jetboy," Jetboy," they repeated once again. This time they drank, and perhaps one or two actually paused for a moment to remember the boy who couldn't die yet, before they lifted soup spoons and began to eat. they repeated once again. This time they drank, and perhaps one or two actually paused for a moment to remember the boy who couldn't die yet, before they lifted soup spoons and began to eat.

Hiram Worchester settled slowly back to the floor.

"You're not eating," Tachyon remarked gently, sneaking a glance at her almost untouched plate.

"Neither are you."

"I have an excuse."

"Which is?"

"My mouth hurts."

"That's not the real reason."

"Why should you care to hear the real reason?"

"I don't. I don't care." She looked away, but memory formed a transparent picture separating her from the room. Josiah, Josiah, nostrils nostrils tightening tightening fastidiously, fastidiously, superimposed superimposed over over Trips's Trips's kindly kindly face. face. Her Her baby baby lying lying like like some some grotesque grotesque entree entree on on Mistral's Mistral's plate. plate.

"What's your excuse?"

That I'm I'm going going to to kill-have kill-have to to kill-you, kill-you, and and I'm I'm losing losing my my nerve. nerve. Would Would that that answer answer satisfy satisfy you? you?

Brain engaged with mouth, and she heard herself say, "I'm upset about what happened today."

"Which part?" the alien asked with a grim little smile.

"The Tomb, the killing."

His hand covered hers. "And you have hit on the reason for my lack of appet.i.te. How can I eat when Kid . . . I think of his parents."