"There's no Zimbaldis live here. Just me and my brother, Lonnie, but he ain't home." Jack smiled, then glanced down at the magazine salesman's feet. Crepe soles on black leather jump boots.

"Maybe you should write your number on this newspaper, I could have him call you. He's always giving to charities."

Jack pressed the paper at him until the man finally took it. Once he did he was looking at the revolver.

"This is a big mistake," Pettis said.

"Why don't you come on in? We're having ice cream." Jack yanked him through the door, then closed and bolted it. "You wired?"

Pettis didn't respond, but Jack spotted the pin mike on his lapel, ripped it off, and stomped on it. Then he saw the earplug. "Get the receiver out." Pettis dug it out with his thumb and index finger. It was a microchip about the size of an eraser with no wire. "Nice," Jack observed, dropping it into his pocket.

Just then he heard someone coming up the stairs, whistling. He spun Pettis around and frisked him quickly, pulling a Glock 9 out of a waist holster, a SIG P-232 off his leg, and a stun gun with two batteries out of his coat. "You really came to party," Jack quipped as he pulled the clips and both slides, then threw the guns across the room.

"You're just making things worse for yourself."

"You, too," Jack said, and clocked him hard on the head, banging the side of the Smith amp; Wesson against the man's transverse occipital bone-police academy combat tactics. Guaranteed to produce a snooze.

Pettis went down in a clutter of stolen magazines.

A key scraped in the lock.

Jack aimed his gun and waited.

When the door opened he was looking at a very intense, wirey man wearing Bermuda shorts, grimy tennies with no socks, and a threadbare red-checkered shirt, complete with pocket protector.

"Dr. Zimbaldi?"

"What are you doing in my wife's apartment?"

"Trying to save your life. I'm with Herman Strockmire. We've gotta get you out of here."

"You're what?" Zimbaldi said.

Jack heard a car squeal to a halt in the parking lot below followed by four doors slamming. "Listen, Doctor, we need to leave right now. Your life is in danger. It's about that stuff Herman gave you-the fifty-page encryption."

"That's silly."

Jack didn't have time to discuss it, so he turned and pulled the confused Dr. Zimbaldi out of the apartment and into the corridor.

"Where's the service elevator?"

"There isn't one."

Just then the doorway to the staircase flew open and two men in jeans, combat boots, and windbreakers appeared. Both were holding guns that were unlike anything Jack had ever seen-long elliptical shapes with narrow frames and breeches, laser sights, and banana grips-deadly looking two-handed ordnance.

Jack jumped back inside the apartment, pulling Zimmy with him just as the men fired. Two laser beams of light zapped ominously, ripping holes into the door frame.

He slammed the door shut. "Is there a back way outta here?"

"This way." The doctor led Jack into the bedroom. Zimmy dug under the bed and came out with a rope ladder. "Fire ladder," he explained.

They opened a window, hooking the rope ladder to the sill, then throwing it down. Jack helped Dr. Zimbaldi out, then climbed after him. In seconds they were standing in the carport.

"You got a car?" Jack asked urgently. "Yeah, the white Nissan." Zimmy pointed to it. A Nissan Sentra. Shit, Jack thought. A roller skate with seat belts.

"Okay, I'm going across the street," Jack told him. "Hopefully, Herman and his daughter are in a silver Mercedes over there. After I leave, count to ten and get moving. We're using your wheels. Pick us up. You with me?"

"Yeah."

Jack ran to the corner and looked across the street. He could see Herman and Susan, but they had ignored his instructions and gotten out of the car. They stood looking right at the apartment building across the street, like gawk-ers in Times Square. They might as well have been holding a neon sign over their heads with an arrow pointing down. Jack crossed Montrose Boulevard, threading his way through traffic, and as soon as he got to the car he grabbed Susan's arm.

"You're both leaving in a white Nissan. Here it comes now. Leave the rear, right side door open for me. Go."

A gray sedan Jack had never seen before skidded around the corner at the other end of the street. There were four men inside.

Jack pushed Herman and Susan toward the Nissan, shouting at them to get in. Then he jumped behind the wheel of Barbra's Mercedes, gunned it, and shot backwards out of the driveway, right into the path of the fast-approaching government sedan.

A symphony of tortured rubber, crashing metal, and broken glass filled his ears as the sedan plowed right into the driver's side, knocking Barbra's little silver jewel halfway up the block, and Jack halfway down into the knee well. He didn't have time to worry about whiplash.

Jack rolled out of the passenger side and started sprinting. He ran straight at the Sentra, then dove headfirst through the open rear door into the backseat, landing right in Susan's lap. "Go, go, go, go!" he yelled.

Zimmy floored it, but not much happened. The car choked and wheezed, whirred, and woofed, and then, as fast as you could say, "This car really sucks," they were slowly moving up the street.

"Can't it go any faster?" Susan yelled in dismay. And then it finally picked up speed. Jack sat up and looked out the back window. Montrose Boulevard was a mess. The government sedan and the silver Mercedes were crumpled up in the middle of the street, twisted together and blocking both lanes. Traffic art. Other cars had skidded to a halt behind, completing the ugly sculpture.

"My God, what the hell will I tell Barbra?" Herman said, looking back at the wrecked Mercedes as the Nissan rounded a corner and took the horrible vision away.

"Tell her the airbags didn't deploy," Jack answered.

When Jack called Miro, Jackson Mississippi answered: "Reflections. We mirror your fantasies." So that's what it meant. "It's Jack."

"Jack with the nipple pierce, or Jack with the fox terriers?"

"Jack with the gun."

"Oh. Hi." Not too enthusiastic about it either.

"Is Miro around?" Jack said.

"Uh… yes."

"Could I speak to him?"

"Uh… I guess." Then Jack was put on hold.

Barry Manilow was halfway through "I Write the Songs" before Miro picked up. "Hi, big guy. How's my trifle who's an eyeful?"

Jack let it go. "Miro, look, I got a little problem and I need a quiet place to hang for a while. I pissed some guys off and I can't go home, can't go to my office. I was wondering if we could use the little side office you rent, the one next door to mine?"

"The Lipstick Lounge?" Miro said.

"The what?"

"We have a few cross-dressers."

"Great," Jack sighed. "Can I borrow it for an hour?"

"Bring it on, sugar."

"And Miro? Don't send anybody down to answer my phone. My office isn't safe."

"Don't worry. You cured us of that. Come ahead."

Jack had Zimmy drop him on the corner, then jogged past another fishing party while he scoped out the building. He was looking for a gray sedan with four guys with muscles and crewcuts. Of course, everybody looked like that in Boys' Town, but there were always the telltale jump boots.

The building lobby looked clean so he went upstairs and checked his office. He hoped nobody had kicked the door this time, but the lock was still busted, so it was moot. If these guys from Montrose were the same ones who broke in earlier, they'd be showing up soon. By using the office next door Jack hoped he could get a visual ID when they rolled in. It's always nice to be able to recognize the assholes who are trying to kill you.