Mason realized that he was as exposed as if he were doing back flips naked down Broadway. He crouched and twisted to shrink the shooter's target, but knew there was little safety in the effort. Two more shots careened around him, sending him crashing back and forth in the corner of the prow like a pinball and showering broken Christmas lights at his feet.

The longer he stayed where he was, the more certain it was that he would be hit. The closer he got to the deck, the easier a target he would become. The river was his only option. Crouching as low as he could, he sprang into the air, planting his hands on the rail for added leverage, clearing the rail with his feet, and letting go as a bullet cut through his jacket, singeing his side.

Mason hit the river at an angle, falling forward and slapping his face on the water before being swept under. The water was so cold he felt as if his blood had been drained from his body and replaced with ice. He began to lose feeling in his hands, and struggled to free himself from his jacket, afraid that it would weigh him down as he fought to swim to shore.

Kicking ferociously, he managed to break to the surface, gasping for air and swallowing hard. Looking around wildly and treading water, he tried to get his bearings. The casino was already a hundred yards behind him, grim testimony to the swift current. He was easily the same distance from the bank, having been carried toward the center of the river.

Rather than trying to swim directly across the current, he tried to cut it at an angle. That would keep him in the water longer, but give him a better chance of reaching shore. He refused to think about how long he could stay in the water before hypothermia proved more deadly than gunshots.

Mason pressed one shoe against the other to slip it off and give him a better kick, then used his bare foot to do the same with the other. He guessed that he'd only been in the water a couple of minutes, but his arms and legs already felt heavy and he was getting light-headed as his body temperature dropped. There was no light along the river, and he could no longer judge his location.

An overwhelming weariness, deeper than any he'd ever experienced, crept over him as he realized that in another moment or two he wouldn't be able to lift his arms out of the water or kick his legs to stay afloat. Drowning suddenly had a restful appeal, more irresistible even than Beth Harrell, her breasts pressed against him, her scent filling his heart.

A raspy chopping sound floated over the water, stirring him. It was, he realized, a small motor. At this time and place, it could only be a boat. Flailing around in the water, he waved his arms and cried out for help. A spotlight danced around him, then disappeared as the boat drew closer. Barely able to stay afloat, he tried lying on his back when he heard something hard smack into the water near him and skip to his side. He flopped his hand against it, then grabbed it hard when he realized it was a round buoy that was used to cushion the side of a motor boat against the dock.

Mason rolled over in the water and clutched the buoy with both hands. It was clipped to the end of a rope that drew taut when he took hold of the buoy. He held on, nearly deadweight, as he was pulled to the edge of the boat. He managed to throw his arms over the side of the boat and, with the help of someone else, drag the rest of his body out of the water.

Lying in the bottom of the boat, he looked up, panting and shivering.

"I told you to meet me at midnight, and next time you better not be late," Rachel Firestone told him.

Mason refused to let Rachel take him to a hospital. "I don't want to explain to an emergency room doc what happened," he said through chattering teeth. "Somebody will call the cops; then the press will get a hold of it."

Rachel had docked the motor boat at the Dream Casino pier, and they were sitting in her car, the heater turned on full blast.

"You'll probably catch pneumonia, ten different diseases from the crap in the river, and it looks like you've been shot," she added, pointing to a red stain on the left side of his soaking tuxedo shirt. "And in case your brain completely froze while you were in the water, I am the press and I've already got a hold of this story."

"You forgot our deal. Everything's off the record unless I say otherwise."

Rachel rolled her eyes in exasperation. "Men are too dumb to live. I'll be right back."

She returned ten minutes later with her mink coat and wrapped it around him. "Take off your clothes," she instructed.

"You mean I've converted you?" he asked. The weakness in his voice robbed the joke of its impact.

"Not in this lifetime. I don't want you to freeze to death in my car. Makes a lousy obituary."

Mason peeled off his tuxedo shirt, wincing from the laceration in his side. Reaching under the fur coat, he pushed his pants down to his ankles and pulled them all the way off with his feet. He was too tired to fool with his socks and too proud to pull off his boxers. The combination of the heater and the insulation of the fur coat was enough to restore the feeling in his hands and feet by the time they reached his house. Mason got another chill when he saw an unfamiliar car parked in front.

"Don't worry," Rachel said. "She's a friend of mine."

Rachel's friend turned out to be a doctor who made house calls before sunrise on New Year's Day. She had short brown hair, round farm-girl features, thick wrists, and a soothing, confident touch as she palpated and prodded Mason. He followed her instructions to take the hottest shower he could stand, after which she dressed the wound in his side, gave him an injection of antibiotic, and left samples of more antibiotics, to take over the next five days.

Mason dressed in sweats and heavy wool socks before coming downstairs to thank her, only to find that she had already left. Rachel was alone in the kitchen, sitting at the table with two large mugs of steaming tea.

"Where's your friend?" Mason asked Rachel. He sat at the table and took a sip from his mug. "I didn't get to thank her."

"I thanked her for you."

"She didn't even tell me her name."

"You didn't need to know it."

"Why? Is that another secret of the sisterhood?"

Rachel slapped her hand on the table, shaking her mug so that tea spilled onto the table. "Damn you, Lou! I drag your ass out of the river before you drown and find you a doctor in the middle of the night on fucking New Year's Eve so that you don't have to go the hospital where you belong, and you've got to crack dyke jokes."

Mason raised his hands in surrender. "I'm sorry. She was terrific. You redefine terrific."

Rachel grabbed a dish towel from the kitchen counter and wiped the tea that had spilled from her mug. "Yeah, well, she is terrific. She's also married and she's gay. That's a tough way to go. She's got bigger secrets to keep than yours and she understands what it means to help someone when they can't go public."

Mason said, "I am suitably humbled. Tell her the door swings both ways. Make sure she knows where to find me if she needs me."

Rachel nodded. "I'll do that. Now tell me what in the hell happened out there."

"Off the record?"

Rachel nodded again. It was a reluctant nod, punctuated by the dish towel that she threw onto the table in surrender.

"Off the record," she said.

"It was about a quarter to twelve and I was coming to look for you at the front of the casino. Beth Harrell appeared out of the crowd like Moses parting the Red Sea. She asked me to take a walk with her."

And since you are cursed with a penis, you had no choice."

"Jealous?"

"Of her? Not a chance. She's not my type."