'What man?

'I think he's someone Harwood… collected. Collects people. Interesting people. I think he might've worked for Harwood, taken commissions. He doesn't leave a trace, none at all. When he crosses someone's path, they're just gone. Then he erases himself.

Yamazaki fumbles the antibiotics from his bag. 'Will you take these, Laney? Your cough-

'Where's Rydell, Yamazaki? He's supposed to be up there now. It's all coming together.

'What is?

'I don't know, Laney says, leaning forward to dig through the contents of the bag. He finds a coffee and activates it, tossing it from hand to hand as it heats. Yamazaki hears the pop, the vacuum hiss, as Laney opens it. Smell of coffee. Laney sips from the steaming can.

'Something's happening, Laney says and coughs into his hand, slopping hot creamed coffee on Yamazaki's wrist. Yamazaki flinches.

'Everything's changing. Or it's not, really. How I see it is changing. But since I've been able to see it the new way, something else has started. There's something building up. Big. Bigger than big. It'll happen soon, then there'll be a cascade effect.

'What will happen?

'I don't know. Another fit of coughing requires that he set aside the coffee. Yamazaki has opened the antibiotics and tries to offer them. Laney waves them aside. 'Have you been back to the island? Do they have any idea where she is?

Yamazaki blinks. 'No. She is simply not present.

Laney smiles, faint gleam of teeth against the darkness of his mouth. 'That's good. She's in it too, Yamazaki. He reaches for the coffee. 'She's in it too.

RYDELL found a place in one of those buildings that had clearly been a bank, when banks had needed to have buildings. Thick walls. Someone had turned it into an all-day breakfast-special place, and that was what Rydell was after. Actually it looked like it had been some kind of discount store before that, and who knew what else before, but it had that eggs-and-grease smell, and he was hungry.

There were a couple of size-large construction types, covered with white drywall dust, waiting for a table, but Rydell saw that the counter was empty, so he went over there and took a stool. The waitress was a distracted-looking woman of indeterminate ancestry, acne scars sprinkled across her cheekbones, and she poured his coffee and took his order without actually indicating she understood English. Like the whole operation could be basically phonetic, he thought, and she'd have learned the sound of 'two eggs over easy' and the rest. Hear it, translate it into whatever she wrote in, then give it to the cook.

Rydell got the Brazilian glasses out, put them on, and scrolled for the number Yamazaki had given him in Tokyo. Someone picked up on the third ring, but the glasses didn't map a location for the answering phone. Probably meant another mobile.

Silence on the line, but it had a texture.

'Hey, Rydell said, 'Yamazaki?

'Rydell? Laney- Cut off by a burst of coughing and then dead silence as someone hit mute.

When Laney came back on, he sounded strangled. 'Sorry. Where are you?

'San Francisco, Rydell said.

'I know that, Laney said.

'In a diner on, on… Rydell was scrolling the GPS menu, trying to get in, but he kept getting what looked like Rio transit maps.

'Never mind, Laney said. Sounded tired. What time would it be in Tokyo? That would be in the phone menu, if he could find it. 'What matters is you're there.

'Yamazaki said you had something for me to do up here.

'I do, said Laney, and Rydell remembered his cousin's wedding, Clarence having sounded just about as happy, saying that.

'You want to tell me what it is?

'No, said Laney, 'but I want to put you on retainer. Money up front for as long as you're up there.

'Is it legal, Laney, what you want done?

There was a pause. 'I don't know, Laney said. 'Some of it hasn't ever been done before probably, so it's hard to say.

'Well, I think I need to know a little more than that before I can take it on, Rydell said, wondering how the hell he'd ever get back down to Los Angeles if this didn't pan out. Or indeed if there was any point in his going back.

'You could say it's a missing person, Laney said after another pause. 'Name?

'Doesn't have one. Probably has a few thousand, more like it. Listen you like cop stuff, right?

'What's that supposed to mean?

'No offense, you told me cop stones when I met you, remember? Okay, so this person I'm looking for is very very good at not leaving traces. Nothing ever turns up not in the deepest quantitative analysis. Laney meant netsearch stuff that was what he did. 'He's just a physical presence.

'How do you know he's a physical presence if he doesn't leave traces?

'Because people die. Laney said.

And just then there were people taking seats on either side of him and a sharp reek of vodka, 'Get back to you Rydell, said thumbing the pad and pulling the glasses off.

Creedmore grinning on his left 'Howdy, said Creedmore. 'This here's Marjane.

'Maryalice. On the stool to Rydell's right, a big old blonde with most of the top of her strapped up into something black and shiny, the unstrapped part forming a cleavage where Creedmore could easily have wedged one of those pint bottles. Rydell caught something deep in her tired eyes, some combination of fear, resignation, and a kind of blind and automatic hope: she was not having a good morning, year, or life probably, but there was something there that wanted him to like her. Whatever it was, it stopped Rydell from getting up with his bag and walking out, which was really what he knew he should be doing.

'Ain't you gonna say hi? Creedmore's breath was toxic.

'Hey, Maryalice, Rydell said. 'Name's Rydell. Pleased to meet you.

Maryalice smiled, about a decade's wear lifting, just for a second, from her eyes. 'Buell here tells me you're from Los Angeles, Mr. Rydell.

'Does he? Rydell looked at Creedmore.

'Are you in the media down there, Mr. Rydell? she asked.

'No, Rydell said, fixing Creedmore with the hardest look he could muster, 'retail.

'I'm in the music business myself, Maryalice said. 'My ex and I operated one of the most successful country music venues in Tokyo. But I felt the need to get back to my roots. To God's country, Mr. Rydell.

'You talk too much, said Creedmore, across Rydell, as the waitress brought Rydell's breakfast.

'Buell, Rydell said, with something approximating a tone of even good cheer, 'shut the fuck up. Rydell started cutting the hardened edges off his eggs.

'Beer me, Buell said.

'Oh, Buell, Maryalice said. She hauled a big plastic zip bag up off the floor, some kind of advertising giveaway, and rummaged inside. Came up with a tall sweaty can of something she passed to Creedmore over Rydell's lap, under the counter. Creedmore popped it, held it to his ear, as if admiring the hiss of carbonation.

'Sound of breakfast cooking, he said, then drank. Rydell sat there, chewing his leathery eggs.

'SO, you go to this site, Laney was saying, 'give them my name, 'Cohnspace-Laney, cap C, cap L, first four digits of this phone number, and 'Berry'. That's your nickname, right?

'Actually it's my name, Rydell said. 'Family name on my mother's side. He was seated in a capacious but none too clean cubicle in the former bank's restroom. He'd gone there to get away from Creedmore and company, and so he could ring Laney back. 'So I give them that. What'll they give me? Rydell looked up at his bag, where he'd hung it on the sturdy chrome hook on the cubicle door. He hadn't wanted to leave it out in the restaurant.

'They'll give you another number. You take that to any banking machine, show it a picture ID, key the number. It'll issue you a credit chip. Should be enough to hold you for a few days, but if it's not, phone me.