"Well, for one thing, they might slow down your eating."

    "I should eat slow? Why?"

    "Slow eaters tend to eat less."

    "You're not going to start, are you?"

    Jack shook his head. "Not tonight."

    He knew his own eating habits—except when Gia cooked for him—were anything but healthy. One of these days he'd get his cholesterol checked. But at least he was active. Abe spent most of his time on that stool, eating. Jack didn't like to think of his closest friend as a cardiac arrest waiting to happen.

    But he was getting tired of being a nag, especially since it hadn't changed anything. The guy was fatter than ever, and didn't seem to care. With his wife long dead, his daughter barely speaking to him… food and reading newspapers—usually simultaneously—were his joys in life.

    Abe said, "And kimchi, I'll have you know, is diet food. Fermented cabbage. More low-cal is hard to find." He pushed the container toward Jack. "You want?"

    Jack shook his head. The two burgers at the Ear would hold him the rest of the night.

    "Thanks, no. I didn't think any of the Korean places around here delivered."

    "I picked it up on my way back from the hospice."

    Jack knew why Abe had gone there.

    "How's the professor doing?"

    Abe shook his head. "Not good. The chemo and radiation are slowing down the cancer, but his right side is still useless from the stroke."

    "And the numbers?"

    A sigh. "Still with the numbers."

    Peter Buhmann, Ph.D., Abe's old professor from his university days, had suffered a stroke last month while paging through the Compendium of Srem. Turned out to be a hemorrhage into a metastatic brain tumor from kidney cancer. The weirdest part was that he'd stopped speaking words and begun speaking numbers. Exclusively. And not random numbers—only primes multiplied by seven. Strange and sad, because the cancer was all through his body.

    "How long?"

    Another shrug. "Could be weeks, could be months." He burped kimchi.

    "And how long before that stuff hits your colon? I would like to be out of here before then."

    Abe smiled. "Why do you think I stock those NBC masks?"

    "You'll let me know if I need to run downstairs and grab one, won't you?"

    "Of course. But my guess is you didn't come here at this hour to ask about the professor or tshepen me about what I eat and the way I eat it. Nu?"

    Jack told him about his meeting with Naka Slater.

    "So, a second-story man you're looking for."

    "Seems like it. Used the name Eddie Cordero, which rings some sort of bell with me, but apparently it's an aka."

    Abe frowned. "A bell for me too. Who, I wonder…?" He shrugged. "Maybe it will come. Meanwhile, we need to find a second-story ganef who was away for a while and has a tan maybe."

    "And looking to unload a rotted-out katana."

    Abe twirled his finger next to his head. "He's a little farblondjet, maybe?"

    "Maybe." Damn, this was weird—but that made it interesting. "Anyway, you put out the word to your people, I'll talk to mine."

    "You know who else you should talk to? Tom O'Day."

    The name sounded familiar.

    "The knife guy?"

    "Yes, and a fence he'll be should the opportunity arise. Runs an East Side specialty shop called Bladeville. Sells anything and everything that cuts—from scimitars to steak knives."

    "Good thought. I'll check with him tomorrow. Never met him, so could you give him a call to loosen him up?"

    "Sure, but don't expect much looseness. A shmoozer he's not."

    "Might be if I say I'm looking to buy it. If he knows of it, he can dip his beak as middleman."

    "Good luck." Abe rubbed his belly and shifted in his seat. "Uh-oh. Fortz coming."

    Jack spun and beat it toward the door.

    "Bye."

    "And you have no clue where she was calling from?"

    Menck shook his head. "Tried to squeeze her—gentle, I swear—but suddenly she hung up."

    Hank Thompson ground his teeth as he and Menck stood to the side of the phone bank he'd set up in the Lodge's basement. Ten phones manned by a rotating cadre of volunteers, collecting one false lead after another.

    "And you didn't do anything to scare her off?"

    "You've asked me that three times now and the answer's still no. Fuck no. Matter of fact, she already sounded scared when she got on the line."

    "Scared how?"

    Menck shrugged. "Dunno. Can't be sure but she sounded surprised. Like she'd just seen the flyer for the first time."

    How could that be? They were all over the five boroughs.

    Unless she'd been out of town for a couple of weeks.

    "You're sure she asked for 'Jerry'?"

    "Absolutely. Who's Jerry?"

    Hank almost shouted, My brother, you asshole, but realized Menck had no way of knowing that. Only a handful of people knew he had a brother—half brother, actually—and they weren't talking.

    The world knew that Jeremy Bolton was dead, but didn't know Hank's connection. It had been a big story last month when his body was found and identified by DNA. Dawn had known him as Jerry Bethlehem—still presumed alive—but the rest of the world knew him as Jeremy Bolton, the famous Atlanta Abortionist Killer from almost twenty years ago. Only the same handful of people who knew the brother relationship knew that Jeremy had been living as Jerry.

    Hank was pretty sure he knew who was behind his death.

    Mr. Everyman: mid-thirties, average height, average build, average-length brown hair, average nose, nothing-special brown eyes, dressed in nondescript clothing. He'd dogged Hank's trail, pretending to be a reporter, even mugged him in broad daylight.

    Jeremy had described a guy just like him worming into the edges of his life.

    An agent of what his father had called the Enemy. That had sounded a little bit crazy to Hank, a little bit paranoid. But then Daddy had disappeared.

    Now Hank believed: They were out to ruin Daddy's Plan to change the world. Dawn's baby was the key to the Plan, and the Enemy was out to kill it. Kill it. Hank had to find Dawn first.

    That had been Dawn on the phone. Had to be.

    Is his name Jerry?

    She was the only one who'd connect those flyers with Jerry.

    Which meant she didn't know he was dead. Maybe he could use that…

    And maybe not.

    "Oh, here's Darryl," Menck said, pointing to a lean, scruffy Kicker waiting by the stairs. "He wants to talk to you. Says it might be important."

    "Yeah?" Hank knew Darryl. One of his flyer posters. "Send him over."

    Darryl approached and squinted at him. He always squinted, even at night.

    "Hey, man. A little weirdness happened today. Might be somethin, might be nothin."

    "Shoot."

    "I was hangin this flyer by Blume's when this Arab chick comes over and starts asking me about it."

    "Arab?"

    "Well, she was wearing that veil thing they wear."

    Hank nodded. He didn't know much about rag heads, but knew the veil meant Muslim, not necessarily Arab.

    "What was her problem?"

    "Well, for one thing, she was all shook up. I mean, her hands were shaking, man. Asking all sorts of questions about who was looking for her and what we intended to do with her if we found her."

    Hank felt his insides begin to tighten.

    "What she look like?"

    Darryl shrugged. "Well, with the veil thing with that big scarf wrapped all around her head and shoulders, who could tell?"

    "You must have seen her eyes. What color were they?"