T H R E E

That night in the police station, I spilt out like a backed up sewer. Everything I knew about Allen Frank and his operation came gushing out. Talked until I was hoarse, till my voice was a husky croak. The sun was up before I went quiet. Afterwards, they let me sleep on the couch in a little back room right there in the precinct. That was deepest, blackest sleep I'd ever had. No dreams. And that was good.

When I woke up again I was in a real flexible state of mind and did pretty much what people told me to do. I understood that things were going to change. Be different. That seemed like a good idea and, for a while, I started to think maybe everything was going to be okay.

But whenever Fate lurches in looking for a party, you better watch where you're dancing or the next question could be, "I'm standing in what?" The goddess is a lush with a short attention span and a bizarre sense of humor.

The cop's name was Harry Doyle and he turned out to be a pretty decent guy which was a relief because we ended up spending most of the next two years together. (Eight percent of my mortal years — my Wonder Years.)

I wasn't there when they arrested Allen but I saw him after. I got the impression he had been expecting this to happen. His wasn't the kind of business people retired from peacefully. I found out this wasn't the first time he'd been arrested, he had a massive record. Allen was a predator-pedophile with a flair for organization, an international CEO in his field. He had money, connections in low and high places, expensive lawyers, and big-name therapists to protect him. He knew how to cover his tracks.

Because of me, however, because of the things I knew and was willing to tell, none of that was helping him much this time. At the trial, when I saw how it was going, I felt good about that — for a while. Allen's attorneys didn't ask questions, they made accusations, and, like other vampires, they went right for the jugular.

"If you knew the difference between right and wrong," Allen's lawyer blazed, "if you knew it was wrong to do the things you say Mr. Frank asked you to do, if you knew it was wrong to be in those films and photos, if you knew it was wrong for children to sell their bodies on the streets, to be raped and tormented as you say they were ... Why didn't you stop it? Why didn't you go to the police? Why didn't you talk before?"

If we had been alone, I might have told that asshole plenty, but there was a whole courtroom of strangers watching us. That afternoon, after long and miserable consideration, I gave the standard, adolescent answer, "I don't know."

I did know. The first commandment of children who play with freaks is, You. Never. Tell. Those three words had been burned into my head from day-one. They were branded right above the warning, Or Else!

Simple rules are the best rules and easiest to remember especially when they've been beaten into you night and day. Also, Allen told us we were "family." This was true for most of us. We had nobody else and family doesn't rat on family, no matter how rotten it gets, right? When you live in the sewer, it's hard not to think like vermin, especially when you are surrounded by such primo examples. So, yes, those were the reasons I didn't talk.

But it didn't help me feel any better. Long before the trial was over, I was feeling like it was me who had turned those kids out. What I saw in the papers was worse. Everywhere I looked, my face was plastered all over the tabloids. Grainy black and whites stared back at me from all the newsstands — me, Allen, Angelo ... they'd even found pictures of Toby.

Still, nothing Allen's attorney said about me made any difference. The state prosecutor knew her stuff and, at the end of the trial, Allen Frank was sent away to prison — forever.

I went to jail, too. That was a surprise.

Ha — try shock.

Almost from the beginning I understood I was never going to be one of them. Knowing that didn't stop me hoping, it just made the fall that much harder when it came. I wasn't a kid to them, I was something else entirely — a changeling dressed in a kid's clothes, talking in a kid's voice with a kid's face and body. I had done too much, things real kids weren't supposed to do, and that made me as much a monster as Allen Frank. I could see that in their eyes when they wouldn't look in mine although, at first, when Harry took me to the precinct, everybody was fine. It was okay to talk. Cops see a lot in the City, they could take in what I had to say.

They take it in, all right, but they spit it back, too. People talk around children like they're invisible. "Did you see those pictures?" I heard one blue-man talking. "Did you see those movies?" His partner says, "Yeah." Then they made such a face and a sound — disgusted. I disgusted them.

So I wasn't surprised when they couldn't find a foster family or halfway house that would take me in. Harry tried to explain, got mad and gave up when I wouldn't answer him back. Well, I didn't see any reason he should get off when I felt so low. Now I'm sorry I gave him such a hard time but, back then, I hated him. He did worse to me than Allen ever had. He made me happy.

As for the rest of my family, the people I was actually tied to by birth and all that ... I had already tried living with my sister's brood. Maria would alternate between sorry tongue-clucking and maternal-hysteria. She didn't want me around her children. Joe, her husband, (why do sisters always marry jerks named Joe?) told me he planned to keep his eye on me to make sure I stayed out of trouble. I watched him take the door off my bedroom to show he meant business. Then I flipped him the bird — and some very explicit directions — and took off out the window. Harry picked me up a couple of days later down in the Village visiting friends I wasn't supposed to have anymore. But I didn't go back to Maria's.

During the investigation and trial, I stayed at Harry's. After Maria's, Harry convinced his Sergeant I needed protection so I got to stay with him and his live-in lady, Denise Flemming, who was also pretty decent. I wanted to stay there but they didn't need me any more once they took Allen down. You'd have to be a total cretin not to notice the similarities in the way Allen and the State did business.

I was a Ward of the State for ten months and six days. I hated being locked up. It was the same thing all over again except the Hell-door that opened and shut there had bars on it. Nothing had changed.

They had to let me out when I turned eighteen and it wasn't long before I was back to making a living the same way I had when I was with Allen. It's what I knew how to do. I wasn't much of a thief (five-finger discounts don't count, not enough to pay rent). Drugs? No way. Traditional crimes of violence were not my style. I had the passion for it, the need, the rage but I couldn't follow through.

Any place you go, first couple of weeks they're going to rag you over, check you out, see what you're made of. Some places are rougher than others, like the juvenile facility I was sent to care of the State.

There was this particular kid who got on my case the minute I walked in. I tried to keep out of his way because I didn't want trouble. I wanted to be left alone, that's it. Right away, you discover, if you want to be left alone, people are going to do anything but.

As it happened, we got into it outside the shower. I was an escape artist, not a fighter, but this there was no more avoiding. He got through all my defenses, smooth as silk, and next thing I knew, I was pinned on the floor and he's got a fist full of steel wool doing his best to eliminate my unsightly, teenage blemishes for life.

I was not a fighter but pain makes me mad. The next thing that happened was us scrambling around again and, when we finish up, I'm sitting on his chest banging his head into the cement. This dude was not real popular among the population and someone pushed the blade into my hand. All of a sudden, I've got one hand twisted in the mess of his long, yellow hair and the other pressing that knife against his throat. He had that kind of silky, cream-colored hair people go to salons for and never quite pull off. His crowning glory parted in the middle and swept down on each side of his face like wings. At Allen's, we would have called him Dove.

I almost did it. I pushed the knife up to his chin and cut him a little. Blood feels just like sweat when it rolls down your neck like that but, somehow, you know the difference. He stared at me then — eyes big and scared, surprised. Of course I flashed on Toby right off so I didn't — I couldn't — stick that kid.

But I gave him a hell of a hair cut. After that, he left me alone. They all did.

Back on the streets, I was alone, too. I didn't need or want an Allen Frank to "take care" of me. I took care of myself and didn't answer to nobody but me. And I didn't waltz for five, ten or twenty-dollar tricks any more either.

The only good thing about the time I spaced away in detention was that I missed the horror known as disco when it hit the clubs large which should serve to prove there is a light-God. Somewhere. Stereo boomers weren't special any more although they'd got so huge and heavy, a body had to attain serious muscle to walk them about. Punk, new wave and reggae had slid in to stand beside big rock, words and chords swinging out sexy, cynical and honest as always. Early on, I learned from Angelo music was the only thing you could ever trust. Cream rose to the top and stayed. Shit floated off and away. Too bad people aren't like that.

It was great to be out in the City again, finding her all crazy and wild, full of heat and promise, like it was back when Ange and I first went off together. The clubs were the best, they'd become a major way of life and the sound was everywhere. AC/DC slagged along the highway to hell while KISS still cavorted in kabuki drag. Devo's mecha-music waxed the surreal real. The purple Prince played anywhere he could, offending and delighting everyone within ear and eye-shot. Pat Benetar, wailing heart's-out and true, told everybody Hell was for children. Correct. I would never think of her as just some girl rock-diva again. First time I heard that song, I had to get by myself. Walking off, I remember looking over my shoulder to see if someone was looking at me. It was spooky thinking someone knew.

But it was just a song on the radio and no one else seemed to take it serious.

At the Met, Tosca, Violetta and the magnificent Butterfly soared to the moon and beyond. Then plummeted back to earth in an ecstasy of release, the purest voice in the world. Pagliacci was still a crazy bastard. Listening to him made my balls crawl. He reminded me of things, like the Coney Island Clown. Incredible — like an accident I couldn't look away from. Didn't want to. Pagliacci was horror show fear, delicious torment and controllable. I could bury this clown, impale him, immolate him, barbecue and obliterate him!

I love the Opera.

Down in the tiny, smoky bars by the piers, music dropped the glitter and glam. The men and women who played there never hit the Top 40 or took gold records home. The music they call the Blues because it's never as black as all that.

Actually, I tried not to go down to the water too much though my feet seemed to take me in that direction often enough. While the bars could become a brief home, the alleys and walks were mean. A wrong turn could be a final turn, the wrong word your last. Around the piers, the night was alive with half-life that had nothing to do with the Fae and was much more deadly.

Maybe that was the attraction. I wondered about it one night having found myself on the outskirts again down at Sharkey's place. Sharkey's wasn't the kind of establishment that bragged neon over the door, just a grinning primitive carved in the smog-blacked jamb. It wasn't the kind of dive you dipped into off the streets looking for a place to tank up or chill down although plenty of that went on there. It was a pit stop where deals, trade and scams were hatched out. But it was a music place, too, where the street players jammed after the sidewalk trade dried up at night, when the dark really set in, and folks either transformed into hunters or raw meat. The City is a great place, but you've got to consider where you are and what you're doing once the sun goes down. Anyway, Sharkey's was a private concern. No membership fees or any of that crap. You just had to be introduced.

I was introduced by Cody Blue. He'd been singing the streets since Pontius was a pilot. I first met him warbling spare change from the patrons outside the Met. He had a voice like an angel and a face like midnight sin. His skin was the color and texture of retread gone terminal. He could have been genuine competition for any one or a dozen of those tenors that had just put on the show in the big hall. But Cody Blue was into the same shit as Angelo, except he had managed to hang on longer. Maybe it was because Cody never seemed to get enough scratch together to do himself any serious damage. Maybe he was smarter than Ange. Maybe only lucky. Regardless, Cody Blue could sing like the sun coming up over water. He could pull music out of his old Fender as easy and pretty as a kid picking dandelions in the park.

Cody got his name because he once had a thing for some deep blueberry-blue cough syrup laced with codeine folks used to buy over the counter years back before I was born. Right. And they used to put real coke in Coke, too, from what I hear.

It was Cody Blue who first took me into Sharkey's for the street players' serenade. That night, mine was the only white face in the bar. Sharkey wasn't exactly pleased to meet me. His patrons were eyeing me like stale chum, trying to figure out if I had anything worth stealing or if I was only going to be a practice kill — not that any of them needed any practice at that. They looked at me, making me notice them. So I noticed them right back.

"What you bringing this fancy boy in my place, Cody?" Sharkey said, annoyed. "He your new juice dealer?"

"Cody told me Zelda and Big Bessie Dee are singing off tonight," I said before Cody could answer. "I wanted to hear them go at it. I got no disrespect for your place, Sharkey. I ain't here to make change. Just want to catch the sound."

"No one was supposed to be passing out tickets." He glared hard at Cody.

"Then I'll be on my way," I promised.

"Red knows how to keep to hisself," Cody broke in. "What you think, Sharkey? I bring trouble here? This boy's my guest."

"This child ain't nothing but trouble. You don't see that, you dumber than I thought. Too dumb to live maybe."

I got tensed up at that. Never thought about Cody getting in trouble, bringing me in. Didn't want that to happen. Wasn't going to let it happen.

"We just come for the music." I spoke up so Sharkey'd be looking back at me again. He did.

I could feel the frost prickling under my skin, balanced there on the toes of my boots, ready to jump that bar and go for it. Sharkey looked at me out of blood-shot ivory for a heart beat or two. Then he commenced to laughing — a deep, rumbling sound that rippled up out of the pit of his immense belly.

"Where'd you find the baby pit bull, Cody?" Sharkey said, loud so everyone else could hear, too. "He's a little fancy for the likes of you."

"He be street raised," Cody said, meaning I knew how to behave. "The breeding's good."

Sharkey slid drinks in front of us and says to me, "You got a lot of mad in you, boy. Keep a leash on it in here."

I nodded. Cody and me drank our drinks. Drank some more. Watched the big show when it came on around three a.m. If I had questioned my smarts in staying before, I stopped then. They were great, Bessie and Zelda. The sound they made was like the Dark giving birth to a starving child. No self pity, nothing like that. It was sad and bad and mad and wonderful. They took the pain that was their life and twisted it up into something beautiful, threw it back up to the Night, laughing. The sounds I'd heard before they began were plenty fine, too. Sharkey's was definitely worth the hassle.

Well, we all have our addictions.

Mine kept bringing me back to Sharkey's until I was so much a regular, no one thought to question my white face. Sometimes Cody Blue was with me. Sometimes not. After the first couple of small time skirmishes, no one bothered me much.

Then one night I went in and discovered I wasn't alone. There was another salt and pepper pair hanging out at the bar. They made an even odder couple than me and Cody Blue because neither one of them looked like they belonged there. Yet, in another way, they did. They had that hunter-look about them, black clothes, leather and flashes of bright jewel silk. Not pimps, not enforcers — but something else that belonged to the night. Maybe collectors — like the Mafia agents that made sure mom and pop restaurants stayed in business.

One was tall and broad shouldered with long, straight black hair and sun bronzed skin. He could have been anything from a professional soldier to a dance instructor; he moved that easy, looked that strong. The other was shorter, slim, like muscle and skin poured over a skeleton and left to gel. Very fluid. The tall one wore a thick gold ring in one ear which matched his lynx yellow eyes. The other wore black wrap sunglasses, dark enough to suck in and keep every bit of light that hit them. I'd tried that look once, early on in my career. Almost broke my neck crashing down a flight of stairs in a dark bar on the way to the gents. Gave up on it immediately.

They talked too loud, like foreigners spoiling for a fight. I glanced at Sharkey, wondering, did a fast study around the bar. Everyone was low key, drinking and talking, very much wrapped up in their own little parties. But watching and waiting, too. Smiling a lot. That was clue enough.

Get out! — that was my street voice talking to me, loud and clear. I started to turn around when both of the strangers shut up and looked in my direction. The small one smiled and lifted his glass in a salute, almost like he knew me. I quick-thumbed the mug shots of my mind but I didn't recognize either of them. I'd wandered in out of the fog and chill-damp, happy to get inside. Now I was ready to truck on back.

Then the little one yells out, "Mon ami — you will have a drink with us, non?"

Backing off can be bad but it's acceptable. Running is one of the worst things you can do, especially in a place like Sharkey's — unless you're out of options. If I'd turned tail and walked out then, it would have been the same. I'd have been fair game, never able to show my face back there again. So no matter what my inner edge was screaming, I shouted back at it that I wasn't scared of any refugees from a Bob Fosse billboard.

I stepped up to the bar and Sharkey placed a bourbon on the scarred wood before me.

"A very good evening," the small man said. I interpreted from the thick, French accent. "This is the custom in your country, no? We will drink together, yes?"

"We're in the same bar," I said and thought, Tourists! For a minute, I felt kind of sorry for them.

"We were told this was the place to hear real American music."

I nodded.

"Allow me to make the introductions. This is my good friend, Rex. I am Touraine."

Touraine removed his sunglasses, smiling at me. He had a beautiful mahogany face behind those Ray Ban's and equally beautiful eyes. They were wide with long, curling lashes — dark and thick enough to suggest eyeliner and mascara although that wasn't the case. Touraine was the kind of man who was used to turning heads. He liked it. Removing those glasses was a calculated gesture. I was supposed to be impressed.

What really impressed me was the fast flash of humor that had raced over Rex's face when Touraine introduced him. It was the kind of inside-joke grin that meant he wasn't usually called "Rex" but something else.

"And you are named?" Touraine paused significantly, beaming at me with his too perfect, closed mouth, bow-shaped smile.

"You guess," I said. I wasn't trying to be coy or play games. It wasn't an invitation to the dance. I let the edge show in my voice to make sure they both caught that.

Touraine laughed, delighted at the challenge. "You are Red. Like your hair." He used that for an excuse to reach over and touch it. "You are beautiful, too. Like me. We will be friends."

I knew better but kept my mouth shut. They had something to hide, those two, and weren't being too clever about it. Or perhaps they just didn't care. Listening to Touraine gabber, I was ready to bet on the latter. He loved to listen to himself talk which was okay with me since that meant I didn't have to provide any answers.

Touraine only shut up when the music started, for which I was surprised but grateful. Still, he would have been hard put to keep at it anyway. The sound was good and it was loud. Exceptional stuff, the kind that throbbed the boards, shook soot down from the ceiling tiles and got your heart pounding at the same time. Looking around, I watched how everyone else got sucked into it, too. As usual. It wasn't blues that night but something hard and raunchy that slammed in like a fist to the gut — except no pain. Left a body feeling breathless and aching/yearning but in the right way. Impossible to scheme about that or fret about this with that kind of music in the air. There was still plenty of drinking and like that going on, but the sound was the major focus. Soon there was dancing — in singles, pairs, groups. Who could help moving to a beat like that?

While I was careful about sending out any invites to the Frenchman and his big pal, Touraine was busy putting the moves on me. He liked to dance, liked dancing with me — that was clear. But it wasn't such a bad thing because he was so good at it, and he genuinely liked the music. He couldn't fake that, I would have known. For once Touraine seemed carried away by something other than himself.

He was good enough to dance me into the floor, that was sure. That was unusual. Most times, it was the other way around — I couldn't find a partner who could keep up with me. Don't know how long we were out there, but when I was ready to drop, Touraine was still leaping and grinning, throwing his head back and laughing. I was drenched with sweat and breathing hard. Touraine wasn't even winded.

The set ended and I gasped out something about "Air!" Headed towards the door. There were a few other fellow breathers out there, sucking in the fog and more. Relaxing. No threat. So I walked 'round to the side, into the alley. It wasn't enjoyably fragrant back there but it was quiet and peaceful. The moon was full and glowing behind fingers of fog. It looked like someone had cut out a swatch of moving-skylight and framed it between two brick walls.

I wasn't alone very long. Touraine showed up shortly, carrying my coat. "It is cold outside," he said. "Here is your jacket."

I put it on, more for something to do than because I was cold. I was still hot from the dance. Touraine was, too, because he didn't waste any time getting close to me, putting his arms around me. He was really pushing the introductions, sliding his fingers into my hair, touching my face, my throat. Then his mouth was on mine — but that wasn't much of a surprise. His touch was the shock, the feel of him, like velvet ice wherever his skin touched mine. Weird chemistry.

But I didn't make dates at Sharkey's. It wasn't just that I didn't want to lose my welcome there, it was because Sharkey's was one of the few places in the City where I didn't work, where I got away from it.

Touraine didn't leave me any room to be politic. He wasn't even leaving me room to breathe. I knew his kind of action, so I shoved him off with a fist and words to the same effect. But Touraine wouldn't shove. Just held on harder, grinning at me.

"You're wasting your time," I said. "I only go with men for money."

That was only half true. I only went with women for money, too. But I was hoping a dollar value would insult Touraine's ego to the point he'd get pissed and split.

No such luck. He kept hanging on — could feel the circulation shutting down around the bruises on my arm. He flashed out a wad of bills at me that could have been the take from a small heist, all 50's and 100's.

"Money is not a problem," he said. "I am glad to share with my friend."

"Put that away. You want to start a riot here?"

Touraine shrugged. "What does all of that matter?"

"I don't want trouble. And I don't want you."

A different kind of smile settled on Touraine's face. Deep red hazed his eyes. He still wanted to dance and didn't care if it was a tumble or a rumble.

"You are not one of them here," he sneered. "They don't care what happens to you. Even if you were to call out to them now, they would not come to help you."

There was a fresh challenge in his eyes, something in his voice that dared me to try — and kept me quiet at the same time. Allen Frank could look at you like that, a snake freezing down some pathetic little house mouse. Music started up again inside the bar, loud enough to rock the block. Enough to shake the grit beneath my boots.

"I don't need their help," I snapped out. "I don't need anybody."

And I didn't. Crushed Touraine's instep first, then kneed him in the balls. Finished with a fist driven hard and heavy — 1-2-3 — in the soft centers while he was going down. Then I booked out of that alley and ran.

I wasn't eleven years old anymore. I'd learned a lot since that first time at Allen Frank's apartment. Felt okay about it, trucking along. But I knew I would feel even better once I was back in my own den.

It wasn't long before I heard the sound of feet shadowing mine, softer, faster. Had to be Touraine. Couldn't be anybody else. Sound carries on an empty, late night street in ways it never does during the day. I heard another noise from back there, too — like a mad cat. Something big from the zoo, except sounding a lot meaner and louder. Then I noticed that the running sound was coming from in front of me. That was startling. Couldn't tell how he did that. Another runner set in behind, a heavier footfall. Good old Rex.

I took a turn down a narrow alley, black as pitch, thick with litter and debris. Let the tourists follow me down this trail — if they could. I knew these back street twists and turns like the riff on a Zeppelin slide. Vaulted onto a gate, clambered up and over. Hit pavement flying and soared down those black curves and narrow stretches. Quiet settled around me for a couple of beats — stayed. But that was wrong. I knew they were there, both of them. Felt it like fog-shadow crawling over my skin, full of chill and secret menace. Sucked in as much air as I could and speeded up. A stitch spiked my side like a flaming pike; my lungs were heaving out fog of their own. I had my blade open in my fist (don't leave home without it), when I rounded down towards the main street. Just a few more blocks and I'd leave the docks and the alleys behind. It's harder for them to get at you in the citizen arena. It's too open, too many eyes even at this late hour.

Didn't make it. Before I finished the turn, Touraine was there, pouncing-down in front of me. I almost lost it right then and there. There was no way he could have got in front of me like that unless he knew how to fly. This was impossible. Still, I dropped and slid as soon as I saw him. Thought I could take him down like that, crashing into his legs, but he just stepped aside. If I hadn't seen it myself, I wouldn't have believed it. Nobody could be that fast. Nobody!

That kind of move can sap the sass right out of you in a fight. You know then, no matter what you do, it won't be any use. You are trashed before you start. Finished. Just like at Allen's.

Touraine stepped closer, grinning like he'd already won. The son of a bitch wasn't even breathing heavy! Touraine took his time drawing close, steady and smooth, circling around me — considering just how he was going to do it. Letting me see what he was planning in his angel-pretty face.

Moonlight danced off the polished tips of his shiny, black leather boots. Touraine kicked me hard in the side and it hurt like hell. Felt things crunch in there. But I reared up and grabbed onto him, curling around his leg before he could draw back and stomp me again. Sank my teeth into his skinny calf getting skin and meat through black denim. Touraine howled out loud, a genuine pain sound. Then he was crashing down.

We rolled around together — real passionate as you can probably imagine. It went quick. I still had my knife and, soon, I was sitting on his back with a fist locked onto his hair. I shoved the blade against the back of his throat.

"I'll cut you," I snarled-out, gasping. "I swear."

A giant-sized shadow stepped up to block the moonlight. Big Rex. I glared up at him from my squat on his bleeding amigo.

"I mean it," I hissed up at the giant, feeling sick and scared — but mad, too. "I'll do it. I'll kill him."

"I believe he will do as he says," Rex said. He might have been telling us that it was going to rain. "He will surely destroy you, Touraine. I recommend you yield if you wish to continue."

Rex had a deal maker's voice, the kind that was used to giving orders. His wasn't a French-sound but something different, an accent I'd never heard before — which was a miracle in itself. You hear everything in the City.

But Touraine wasn't ready to believe him. "No," he snarled out. "I will not give up."

"Trust me." I pushed the blade in so he could feel it, just like I'd done with Dove. "We can all walk away from this — if you're smart. It won't take much, Frenchman. Let it go."

Touraine seethed and clenched his fists — but he agreed. Nodding forward, his face pressed into the muck. Maybe I would feel satisfied at that kind of detail later. Right now, all I wanted was to be alive and gone!

"All right," Touraine agreed — just as I was thinking I was really going to have to do the deed. "It is done. As you said. I yield."

Which was his fancy way of saying "uncle" I guess. Rex offered me a hand but I didn't take it. Just stood up and backed off, hoping I would get out of there with the rest of my skin in one piece. See, I reasoned if I killed the Frenchman, Rex would be obliged to go for me. There was no way I could take that kind of bulk down and I was too winded to run anymore.

I started sidling out of the alley towards the big yellow streetlights beyond, keeping a wary eye. It wasn't good enough. Hadn't taken more than a couple of steps before Touraine leaped again, snarling like that cat I'd heard before. He grabbed the front of my jacket in one hand and hauled me in tight. The other fisted in my hair, jerking my head back. I felt his breath on my throat, frigid as winter. Then I knew I was freaking out, losing it bad, 'cause I couldn't be seeing what I was seeing. His big dark eyes had gone all-over red, like something crystal, filled with blood and blazing. His teeth were long, like an animal's, razor edged.

He'd knocked the knife from my hand when he grabbed me. I hit at Touraine's chest but it didn't help any. He just kept grinning.

"Touraine, stop!" Rex shouted.

"Non!"

"You surrendered. It's over."

"No!" Touraine shook his head, wild. "No, it is not done. Not finished. The bounty is mine! It is mine!"

There was a sudden, quick sweep of air, a heavy smack and then, all at once, Touraine wasn't holding onto me anymore.

I stumbled backwards, lost balance and crashed down on my ass about the same time Touraine hit the ground. Heads don't make dull thuds when they crack. It's a thick, wet sound. Then the body drops. There was a splash of damp in the air that wasn't rain. It spattered my face and the front of my leather. It drooled down onto my jeans.

Big Rex stood in the alley holding a long, lead pipe he'd salvaged up from the trash. He stared down at the little man's body and repeated, "I said, it is done, Touraine."

Then he drove the pipe in through Touraine's back, straight into the curve of his spine. I heard pavement crunch when it went through.

And that was that.

Eventually, Rex gave a little shrug, looking down at me, and said, "He had no honor."

Yeah. Right. Sure.

Everything I'd ever eaten in my entire life was suddenly struggling to get out. I swallowed. Then croaked out, "What bounty? What was he talking about?"

"Nothing for you to worry about, Red. Not now."

Rex grinned, just a good-natured big guy out for a stroll with a lead pipe and a dead friend. He pulled me up by my jacket front and set me on my feet. The grin deepened, he chuckled.

"You should see the look on your face," he said.

I started backing away, slow at first, then picking up a little speed. Bit by bit.

"You want some help?" good-buddy Rex asked.

"No. Thanks."

Almost strangled getting those words out. I couldn't get enough air inside. Kept gulping in these quick, shallow drags. So loud, too. And the more I tried to be quiet, the worse it was. Rex didn't say — or do — anything more although we watched each other while I kept backing off. Moving away. I braced myself against the brick, swiveled around and staggered out of the alley.

Turning my back on that guy wasn't any fun. By the time I hit the lamp-bright streets, I was running again.

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