RA *AF

172 L53

The 6B denoting a particular grade of movement, degree of accuracy, he knows, though the 346 is a mystery. The broad arrow, central, the Queen's mark, her property. 53 the year of issue, but 172? Could the boy somehow pry knowledge from these numbers, if the question could be put to him? Somewhere out there, Fontaine knows, every la bit of information makes its way into the stream. He puts the watch down on his Rolex pad and takes up the salty miso again. Looking down through the scratch-frosted glass countertop, he notices a recent purchase, not yet examined. A Helbros from the 1940s, styled after military watches but not an 'issue' watch. Something he bought from a scavenger, down from the Oakland hills. He reaches into the counter and brings it out, a shabby thing after the G6B.

Its bezel is badly dinged, probably too badly to benefit from buffing, and the luminous on the dull black dial has gone a shade of silvery ash. He takes his loupe from his other pocket and screws it into his eye, turning the Helbros under his ten-power Cyclops gaze. The caseback has been removed, screwed back in, but left untightened. He turns it out with his fingers, to check inside for minute graven records of its repair history.

He squints through the loupe: the last repair date etched into the inside back is August 1945.

He turns it over again and studies it. The crystal is synthetic, some sort of plastic, definitely vintage and very probably original. Because, he sees, holding it at just this certain angle to the light, radiation from the original radium numerals has darkened the crystal focally, each number having in effect radiographed itself in the accidental plate of the crystal.

And somehow this, combined with the hidden date, gives Fontaine a shiver, so that he puts the caseback back into place, replaces the Helbros in the counter, checks the locks on the door, finishes his miso, and starts to ready himself for bed.

The boy, on his back, is no longer snoring, and that is a good thing.

When Fontaine lies down on his own narrow bunk, to sleep, the Smith&Wesson Kit Gun, as it is every night, is at the ready.

RYDELL'S father, dying of cancer, had told Rydell a story. He claimed to have gotten it from a book of famous last words, or if not famous then at least memorable.

This man was being executed in England, back in the old days, when execution was made as deliberately hard a thing as possible, and after being burned with hot irons, broken on the wheel, and various other horrific punishments, the man was shown the block, the heads-man's ax. And having been closed-mouthed and stolid throughout his various tortures, he had looked at the ax and the block and the burly headsman and made no reply at all.

But then another torturer arrived, carrying an assortment of terrible-looking tools, and the man was informed that he was to be disemboweled prior to his beheading.

The man sighed. 'More trouble, he said.

If they want me, Rydell said, wincing along beside the man with the tanto in his coat, 'why don't they just grab me?

'Because you are with me.

'Why don't they just shoot you?

'Because we have, these men and I, the same employer. In a sense.

'He wouldn't let them shoot you?

'That would depend, the man said.

Rydell could see that they were coming up on the nameless bar where he'd heard Buell Creedmore sing that old song. There was noise there: loud music, laughter, a crowd around the door, drinking beer and openly smoking cigarettes.

His side hurt with each step he took, and he thought of Rei Toei perched on his pillow, glowing. What, he wondered, did the projector slung over his shoulder mean to her? Was it her only means of manifesting here, of interacting with people? Did being a hologram feel like anything? (He doubted it.) Or did the programs that generated her somehow provide some greater illusion of being there? But if you weren't real in the first place, what did you have to compare not being there to?

But what really bothered him, now, was that Laney, and Klaus and the Rooster too, had thought that the projector was important, really important, and now here he went, Rydell, limping willingly along beside this killer, this man who evidently worked for whoever it was was after Rydell's ass, and probably after the projector as well, and he was just going along with it. Sheep to the slaughter.

'I want to go in here a minute, Rydell said.

'Why?

'See a friend, Rydell said.

'Is this a bid for escape?

'I don't want to go with you.

The man regarded him from behind the thin crystal rounds of his glasses. 'You are complicating things, he said.

'So kill me, Rydell said, gritting his teeth as he slung his weight around and staggered past the smokers by the door, into the warm loud beer smell and crowd energy

Creedmore was onstage with Randy Shoats and a bass player with sideburns, and whatever they were playing reached its natural conclusion at just that point, Creedmore jumping into the air as he let out a final whoop and the music crashed down around him, the crowd roaring and stomping and clapping. Rydell had seen Creedmore's eyes flash flat and bright as a doll's in the stage light. 'Hey, Buell! Rydell shouted. 'Creedmore! He shouldered someone out of his way and kept going. He was a few feet from the stage now. 'Buell! It was just a little thing, the stage, maybe a foot high, and the crowd wasn't that thick.

Creedmore saw him. He stepped down from the stage. The singer's pearl-button cowboy shirt was open to the waist, his hollow white chest gleaming with sweat. Someone handed him a towel and he wiped his face with it, grinning, showing long yellow teeth and no gum. 'Rydell, he said. 'Son of a bitch. Where you been?

'Looking for you, Buell.

The man with the knife put his hand on Rydell's shoulder. 'This is unwise, he said.

'Hey, Buell, Rydell said, 'get me a beer, okay?

'You see me, Rydell? I was fuckin' Jesus' son, man. Fuckin' Hank Williams, motherfucker. Creedmore beamed, yet Rydell saw the thing that was waiting there to toggle into rage. Someone handed Creedmore two tall cans, already opened. He passed one to Rydell. Creedmore splashed cold malt liquor down his chest, rubbed himself with it. 'Damn, I'm good.

'We can be too easily contained here, the man said.

'Leggo my buddy there, said Creedmore, noticing the man for the first time. 'Faggot, he added, as if further taking in the man's appearance and seeming to have difficulty placing it in any more convenient category of abuse.

'Buell, Rydell said, reaching up and grabbing the man's wrist, 'want you to meet a friend of mine.

'Looks like some faggot oughta be kilt with a shovel, Creedmore observed, slit-eyed and furious now, the toggle having been thrown.

'Let go of my shoulder, Rydell said to the man, quietly. 'It doesn't look good.

The man let go of Rydell's shoulder.

'Sorry, Rydell said, 'but I'm staying here with Buell and a hundred or so of his close personal friends. He looked at the can in his hand. Something called King Cobra. He took a sip. 'You want to go, go. Otherwise, just kill me.

'Goddamn you, Creedmore, Randy Shoats said, stepping heavily down from the stage, 'you fucking drug addict. You're drunk. Drunk and ripped to the tits on dancer.

Creedmore goggled up at the big guitar player, his eyes all pupil. 'Jesus, Randy, he began, 'you know I just needed to get a little loose-

'Loose? Loose? Jesus. You forgot the words to 'Drop That Jerk and Come with Me'! How fucked do you have to be to do that? Fuckin' audience knew the words, man; they were singing along with you. Trying to, anyway. Shoats rammed his callused thumb into Creedmore's chest for emphasis. 'I told you I don't work with diz-monkeys. You're toast, understand? Outta here. History.