Cleo laughs acidly. "Her and the goddamn Sea Urchins." She turns to Jerry. "Whaddya think? You said he wanted money."

Jerry says, "He will. Don't worry."

Guys like this, they make it too easy. "That's right, Jerry. The first time I saw you in that snazzy bomber jacket and those Beatle boots, I told myself: I'm gonna squeeze a couple million bucks out of that chrome-domed, noodle-dicked troglodyte."

Now, getting in Cleo's face, I really crank up the charm. "And no offense, Mrs. Stomarti, but if you were sitting here having drinks with Clive Davis, I might be impressed enough to hit you up for a few bucks. Unfortunately, you're here with a dork who's named himself after a fucking hair product, and couldn't get into the Grammys with an AK-47."

A plum blush rises in young Loreal's cheeks, and he huffily challenges me to fisticuffs in the nearest alley. The rest of us stare at him pitilessly.

"Someday you might be a star," I say to Cleo, "but so far you've had exactly one hit single for a rinky-dink label. Whatever money you made is already spent on dope and wardrobe. Beyond the fact you're not worth blackmailing, it's significant to note that I've got nothing to blackmail you with.I can't write a story alleging you stole your husband's song without somebody else saying so. The paper wouldn't print it—please tell me you're not too fried to understand."

The widow paws absently at her bangs. She seems cordially immune to insult. "Suppose you burn another copy of Jimmy's solo version—that'd queer things up for me, it ever got out on the Net. What's to stop you from shakin' me down six months from now? Or a year?"

"Nothing," I say, "except an intense distaste for cliches."

Cleo puffs her cheeks and snorts. "Bottom line, all you want is the chick?"

"Correct."

"What's her name again?"

"Emma. And I want my portable computer, too." I grab one of Jerry's earlobe hoops and pull his grimacing mug close to mine. "The laptop doesn't belong to me, Jer. It belongs to the Maggad-Feist Publishing Group, a publicly held company that is fiercely accountable to its shareholders."

Loreal says, "Jesus, knock it off. We'll buy you a brand-fucking-new Powerbook."

Now the DJ has returned to the podium, and I feel the mother of all headaches taking hold. I release the bodyguard's ear and lean my face across the table into a cloud of Cleo's cigarette smoke. "Let's get this over with."

"I gotta pee." And off she goes.

"So, when can we do it?" I ask Jerry.

"Not tonight," he says. "That's for damn sure."

"Then when?"

He cuffs me sharply on the side of the head and says, "We'll call you tomorrow, asswipe."

"Yeah, we'll be in touch," says Loreal.

As I rise from the table the speakers in the rafters start pounding—a hideous house-mix version of "MacArthur Park."

"You two should cut loose," I advise Cleo's boys. "Don't wait for something slow and romantic. Just let it happen."

Knock-knock. Emma opened the door. They snatched her.

Smooth and easy, it appears. The apartment is unlocked. Her purse is on the bed; on the kitchen table, car keys and a cold cup of espresso. For breakfast she had toast and a bowl of Special K.

Two in the morning, this isn't the best place to be. If I stay much longer I'll put a fist through the wall. Emma is gone and it's my fault.

But somebody's got to feed the cat, which cries and turns figure eights on the tile. I lift her into my arms, saying, "It's all right, Debbie. She'll be home soon."

Staring at the damn telephone, just like in the old days.

I remember once waiting seven hours for a source of mine to call—Walter Dubb, the bus-fleet supplier who was helping me nail Commissioner Orrin Van Gelder for bribery.

Walter's wife had gotten on his ass about making waves, so he was experiencing a crisis of faith. And so was I, because without Walter's cooperation the feds had no case and I had no story. The day before the dinner at which Orrin Van Gelder was to be arrested by the undercover FBI man, Walter went deer hunting and failed to return in time for evening mass. His wife called up to rant. She said he must've got depressed and killed himself, and it was all because of me. She said he should've paid off the commissioner and kept his damn fool mouth shut.

Seized with dread, I sat glued to my desk from four that afternoon until eleven at night. My bladder was the size of Arkansas by the time Walter Dubb finally called. He'd killed a buck and skinned it out and then the pickup broke down in the woods and then a bear showed up and made off with the deer meat before Walter could get his rifle out of the rack—this was the tale he laid upon Mrs. Dubb, anyway. Whatever really happened that evening had put Walter in a highly contented frame of mind, and that's all that mattered to me. I whooped and danced all the way to the John.

Tonight I missed another call from Janet Thrush. She phoned the apartment while I was with Cleo and crew at Jizz.

"Meet me Sunday morning at the donut shop," she said in her message. "Try to be there 'round ten-thirty, okay?"

When I called back, the service answered so I hung up and put "Shipwrecked Heart" on the disc player. I tuned my old acoustic guitar and now I'm working through the chords of the song. The opening line of verse starts with a D, but then Jimmy changes keys and I believe the second line begins with an F-major seven, followed by a C, E-minor and an F. This is catchy but it's not exactly Derek and the Dominos. If a klutz like me can play it, so can Cleo. She can also sing the melody in that fashionably wounded way that sells jillions of records for young female artists.

This is how I'm guessing it started. They were hanging out at the house in the islands, Jimmy and his bride. She probably walked into the studio and caught just enough of the track to know it was better than anything she had in the can. She asked her husband to play it again and he probably said no, it's not ready. Then she batted her eyes and stroked his neck and asked if he'd give her the song and he said sorry, babe, this one's mine. Time went by and Cleo's label was hounding her and she kept nagging Jimmy for the cut. She probably flirted and teased and begged and cried and threw a hissy, but he wouldn't budge. And when it became plain to Cleo that her husband was keeping "Shipwrecked Heart" for himself, she decided to kill him.

And what little she remembered of the song, she sang at his funeral.

Touching.

I messed around with the guitar until an hour before dawn. Then I packed what I thought I'd need, drove to the paper and promptly fell asleep on the floor by my desk. The janitors worked around me, and the phone didn't ring. Now it's nine o'clock and the staff trickles into the newsroom. Abkazion is one of the first to arrive. Somewhere between the elevator and his office door, he spies me and alters course as silkily as a hawk.

"Jack," he says pleasantly, "you look like shit on a Popsicle stick."

Abkazion is one of those editors who prefers to see his reporters rumpled and raw-eyed. It means they're either working too hard or playing too hard—either way, he approves.

"It's this damn story," I say.

"Yeah, Emma told me. How's it going?"

"Ask me in twenty-four hours." I'm tempted to chum him up with my inflated Rick Tarkington quote, but that would require more energy than I can muster. Selling a story to the front page is hard work.

"How was Los Angeles?"

"Productive," I say. "Thanks for the green light."

"Thank Emma. She said you were hot on the trail."

Abkazion isn't tall but he has broad muscular shoulders and carries himself like the collegiate wrestler he once was. He is new to the Union-Registerbut already has endeared himself to the troops by disregarding several penny-pinching directives from corporate headquarters. He is the newspaper's fourth managing editor in six years and, like the others, Abkazion took the job because he thought he could staunch the bleeding. Soon enough he'll learn that he is working for vampires; vampires with stock options.