"Your repartee is scathing, as always," Goodfellow snorted. "Who needs a blade when you can simply run him through with your razor-sharp wit?" Needed or not, a blade appeared in his hand. It was short but sturdy, a modern version of a Roman short sword. "Why don't you and your overly stuffed stomach take a seat and allow me the pleasure?"

"Knock yourself out," I grunted. There was no place to sit that wouldn't result in a wet or garbage-stained ass, so I leaned against the alley wall to watch the show. Goodfellow had issues of his own. I didn't begrudge him the first psycho mugger to take them out on. I could always grab the next one. "But make it quick, would you? This place reeks worse than that cologne you bathe in."

"It's two hundred an ounce and an olfactory work of art, you philistine." He gave an idle swing of the sword, the metal an arc of glittering silver. "And take that from someone who knew quite a few of the bastards. Now let me work."

Our new pal still hung in the shadows' darkest depths. I couldn't see if he was armed or not, although I imagined he was. I did know chances were good he didn't have a gun. If he had, it would've already been out and pointed between Robin's eyes.

Goodfellow tilted his head lazily, casual and curious as a cat. "So, friend, what is it you want? Money? Perversities? An interview with New York's most eligible bachelor? Speak up."

"He said and you came." The hulking figure moved closer, one slow methodical step at a time. "He said. He said." I could now see more of him. A gleaming bald head was dwarfed by the stretch of his muscle-bound shoulders. A black T-shirt that was ripped and worn was stretched tight across the barrel of his chest, and jeans stiff with dirt encased legs like tree trunks. "He said and you came. He said. You came."

Crazy or bad steroids, only his pusher knew for sure. Either way I felt better about it. It meant no one was keeping tabs on Goodfellow or myself. "He's big, Loman," I drawled. "But not too bright. I don't think you're going to get much of a workout here."

When I'm wrong, which I've already freely admitted is pretty frequently, I'm usually spectacularly wrong. This time wasn't much of an exception. The nut job didn't have a gun, no, but he did have a shiny new crossbow. In fact, if I wasn't mistaken, there was a price tag still dangling from the trigger guard. A meaty fist swept from behind his back to reveal the weapon, which was reduced to a delicate toy by the size of the hand that held it. Delicate it or not, it nailed Goodfellow where he stood.

The titanium quarrel punctured his upper leg, ruining what I was sure was a shockingly expensive pair of pants. Robin had already been in midlunge for cover when he was hit. The momentum took him on to tumble behind a metal Dumpster. He hit the asphalt hard but with sword still in hand. In the dark, combined with the charcoal gray of his pants, I couldn't see the blood, but I could smell it. It was an oddly sunny tang in the air, much less coppery than human blood. "You alopecic, bedlamite son of a bitch," he gritted. "Do you know how much these cost?" Yeah, Robin was nothing if not predictable.

I'd sought cover myself from the sudden hail of metal, sliding in beside Goodfellow. He was banging his sword against the side of the Dumpster, each blow a punctuation. "I bought these in Rome." Bang. "Rome." Bang. "The finest tailor slaved for days." Bang. "Days."

I fished in my jacket pocket and pulled out the linen napkin I'd swiped from the restaurant. We were running low on washcloths at home, and I'd picked up more sticky-fingered habits from Robin than was good for me. "Here. Wrap your leg up before the next suit that tailor makes is for your funeral."

He grumbled and cursed but obeyed. While he worked I took my Glock in hand and peered over the top of the Dumpster. Mr. Clean was still coming, step by plodding step. And with every one of those steps he reloaded and fired and there was the ping of metal against metal. Step. Ping. Step. Ping. The intensity of it was creepy as hell, but when it came down to it, it was a situation that could be easily resolved. There was a hiss of breath as Goodfellow cinched the makeshift bandage around his leg. Then he snapped, "What are you waiting for? Shoot the malaka already."

"Gee, what will your next two wishes be, Master?" I asked dryly. I couldn't say I'd never shot a human before. I couldn't even say I hadn't killed one, but circumstances had been different. This guy was dangerous, but not to the point of a bullet in the brain. My conscience was as underweight and scrawny as they came, but even it would suffer a twinge at putting down a loony.

On the other hand, it wasn't as if I could leave him running around. Not unless I planned on setting up house behind this Dumpster. I aimed, then popped off two shots. The slugs in his right shoulder and left thigh were the best compromise I could manage at the moment, especially with Goodfellow griping in my ear. Mr. Clean fell in near silence, the only sound a soft grunt as his back hit the concrete. He was alive, albeit with a good deal of his blood pumping free. I discovered that my conscience had no problem with that whatsoever. "Come on, Goodfellow. We better get out of here before the cops show up."

With a hand gripping the top edge of the Dumpster, Robin pulled himself up to balance on one leg. "A little assistance here, if you please." The gesture he made was remarkably similar to the one he'd given the waiter. Demandingly autocratic. If it weren't for the scent of his blood mingling with the stranger's in the air, I might've let him fall right back on that arrogant ass. Putting the gun away, I slid an arm under his and growled, "Grab your jacket. I don't want to hear the Rome speech all the way back to your place."

Not waiting for the reply that was bound to come, I grabbed a quick look at our attacker. He was still down, the crossbow lying inches from his fingers. Blank eyes stared upward as he mumbled his peculiar mantra over and over, "He said. He said. He said."

Deciding to get out of there before the guys with butterfly nets showed up, I swung Goodfellow out into the street and took off at a good clip. I ignored his outraged yelp of pain, but I was less successful with what followed. "Shouldn't you take the crossbow?" Hopping on one leg, he held the other bent at the knee between us. "You and your cannibal-baby genes may find this world too much to bear, but I personally don't relish a bolt to the back."

It never ended. It honestly never did. "I got him in the right shoulder," I replied impatiently. "He was shooting with his right hand. Unless he's ambidextrous I think we'll survive." Despite my logical words, I took another look over my shoulder. Yep, he was still down and still nuttier than an all-squirrel buffet.

"Why wouldn't he be ambidextrous?" Goodfellow muttered under his breath. "I am, a master with both hands in the art of war."

"I don't think being able to jack off with either hand makes you an expert in anything." I craned my head to scan the alley, what I could see of it. There was something… something besides the guy with the crossbow, but what? I couldn't have said what told me, but I felt it all the same. And then I saw it from the corner of my eye, a pale glimmer at the rooftop. "What the hell is that?" I started to say. I managed to get about half of it out when a titanium bolt furrowed a raw path across my jaw. It was a rude wake-up call to my complacency, and Robin's snapped "I told you so" didn't improve matters either. Scattering garbage like runners in the surf, we careened around the corner to safety. I started to stick my head back around for a last look when another quarrel came flying by.

"Is he coming?"

I wiped a hand across my jaw. It came away wet and red. "I don't know, Loman. Why don't you lean over and take a look? A nice long look. I'll wait right here for you."