"Nosing around. Stay close to the rooms."

"You want a broad?"

Turrin seemed to be considering the idea before he replied, "Guess not. What do they call that — jet lag? Hell it's about one o'clock back home."

The head cock laughed and said, "You're getting old, Leo."

Turrin allowed that land of familiarity. Many bosses didn't. But Leo had a loyal crew. They knew what they could and couldn't — there was no need for squeezing their tails in the bargain.

He chuckled and tipped the bellman in advance then watched men and luggage into the elevator before turning away and looking for somewhere to kill another fifteen minutes.

His wandering took him outside to sample the air. The damn town was pregnant. It was about to give birth to something, that was sure. That atmosphere was loaded with something more than moisture.

He went back inside — located the bar, the coffee shop, barbers, main dining room — then found his way back to the pay telephones at precisely ten-oh-nine.

He dialed the mobile operator, gave her the number, and sat back with an eye to the sweep second hand of his watch.

Bingo — he got the connection at precisely ten-ten.

"Yeh, who'd you want?"

"Guy name Striker, also known as Tony." Which meant there was no gun at Leo Turrin's head.

"That was quick," Bolan's normal voice replied. "I just filed the request thirty minutes ago and hauled down for a long wait."

"Got it twenty minutes ago. I'm in town. What's on?"

"Damned if I know," the big one replied soberly. "I was hoping you could tell me."

"All I know is, for sure, about two hundred descending for head. You got a spare one?"

Bolan chuckled, but it was a dry sound — like steel on steel. "Not lately. Two hundred, eh? Heavy?"

"You'd better believe heavy. Best in the west. What the hell're you up to?"

"I think we'd better meet. I don't like these mobiles."

"Know what you mean. Okay. When and where?"

"How flexible are you?"

"Not very. I'm in party. But you name it, I'll be there. Somehow."

"Okay, let's give it a couple of hours. Make it three. Pick you up at the science fair building, by the fountains. Say one o'clock."

"Okay. Uh, Bigpush may want to come along. Okay?"

The Bolan voice flattened somewhat as he inquired, "He here, too?"

"Supposed to be. We haven't connected yet but probably will before one."

"What'd he bring?"

"Fifty. Maybe another fifty, shortly."

"Come to play, or to watch?"

"To play, I think. With a big worry."

"Okay. Bring him if it's his idea."

"Gotcha. Say, man. Stay hard."

"You too."

Turrin patted the telephone and hung it up, then crossed the lobby to the message desk for another check-in.

And, yeah — it was there that time, Brognola's side of the equation.

He strolled back to the phone booths, casually tossing a dime and reflecting on the crazy life he led.

At the edge of a knife, sure — balanced precariously between two worlds, and none whatever for himself.

So why'd he do it?

Why did singers sing and dancers dance? Leo Turrin was no philosopher. A guy simply did what he did best.

Bolan turned away from the mobile phone and lay a friendly gaze on his guest of necessity, Margaret Nyeburg. "Feeling better?" he asked, unnecessarily. It was quite obvious that she was.

The lady was perched atop his plotting table in the war room, fresh from a renewing if brief shower — legs crossed and feet drawn up under her, dwarfed and childlike in Bolan's dungaree jacket which was the only thing between them at the moment. Lovely, vulnerable, strongly appealing. Bolan found himself regretting even more strongly than ever his earlier involvement with the daughter. Some things just wouldn't work. A mother-daughter situation was one of those things.

A mug of scalding coffee was cooling precariously between her thighs. Bolan moved it, noting her silence, and said, "I guess you are. Feeling better. Eh?"

She sniffed and said, "I just hope I haven't caught a nasty cold. You're a strong young man, Mack. Thank you. That's silly, isn't it? How can I thank you?"

He'd caught that "young man" coder, and understood. She was telling him to keep away. He intended to.

He told her, "We're alive. That's thanks enough."

"For you, good. For me — well, it seems the least of consolations."

He growled, "Hey, hey."

"I can't help it. It's just all so miserable, so impossible."

He said, for about the tenth time, "Margaret —

Dianna did not know what she was getting you into. Believe that."

"I guess you're right," she said, sighing. "I have to believe it, don't I? Dy is all I have in the world."

His gaze shifted. "That's very sad."

"Is it? Why? Some people don't have that much."

"You're what? — thirty-eight? — forty?"

She wrinkled her nose and replied, "Squarely between those two. Diplomacy isn't one of your strong points, is it?"

"Not usually. At the age of thirty-nine, Margaret, all you have of value to your life is a daughter?"

She fidgeted under that penetrating scrutiny. "Well ... okay. I was being dramatic. No, dammit, I wasn't. What else do I have to brag about? Why not be honest with one's self? What do I have, Mack?"

He raised a hand and ticked off the points on his fingers as he called to her attention, "Frustration, self-pity, lack of direction, isolation, death instinct. That's five negatives." He raised the other hand. "Now you count me off five positives to balance that — and I'll tell you what you've got, lady."

"You're doing fine," she replied in a muffled voice, obviously offended by his tone. "Keep counting."

"Okay. You've got beauty, brains, heart, ethics, and a desire to be happy. I could probably count twenty more positives. You want to know what you've got? You've got the world by the very ass, lovely lady."

She flinched. "That's what I said, you're no diplomat."

"And you're no valid object of pity," he growled.

"What was it Dy called you? A tough guy? You are! Tough as an angry old bull, aren't you! And you expect everyone else to be just as tough!"

"That's right," he said softly. "I do. When it comes to standing up and proclaiming life, I sure do."

"You're preparing me for something," she decided, eyes flaring. "What is it?"

"Don't base it all on your daughter," he muttered. "That's all I'm getting at. Life goes on, Margaret. Base it on yourself, and what you can do with it."

Fear began at the eyes and radiated to the entire face. "What are you saying? Is Dianna ... ?"

He turned away from that naked terror. No, he was no damned diplomat — nor was he a dreamer. He'd been there, many times, at the finish of too many Diannas — and, sure, he knew the realities. And he'd decided long ago that there were those times when deception and half-truths in the name of mercy were more painful in the long run than squarely facing the truth.

He told Dianna's mother, "I couldn't get longshot odds from even a guy like Jimmy the Greek on that girl's chances, Margaret."

"But surely ..."

"Here's a surely," he said coldly. "She's playing with brutes, she'll be brutalized."

"John is not a brute! John is a ... !" Those eyes flared again, fizzled, fell, and she finished with a whispered, "Oh well."

"John, huh. Nice guy, huh. Okay, Margaret, you tell me all about nice guy John. This time you hold back nothing. Hear me? Nothing! This is no cute parlor game, dammit. Your daughter's life is hanging Over the edge. You saw how those guys operate! I've seen a lifetime of it! Now dammit, give me the key! Give it to me! Give me the damned key, Margaret!"

"You'd still help her? After all … ?"

"Oh for God's crying children! What the hell am I? We're talking about a kid! Your kid!"