That would be Amazing Grace.

The Cellar d'Or was essentially a whorehouse. And a rather good one. All the help-the chippies, the barmen, the waiters-were West Indian, and the music, its volume so low it seemed to fade when one's attention strayed from it, was also West Indian. Despite the general air of ease and rest, the place was moving a fair amount of traffic. Men would arrive, and during their first drink they would be joined by one of the girls who sat in twos and threes at the most distant tables. Another drink or two and some light chat, and the couple would disappear. The girl would return, usually alone, within a half hour. And all this action was presided over by a smiling giant of a majordomo who stood by the door or at the end of the bar and watched over the patrons and the whores with a broad benevolent smile, his jet black head shaved and glistening with reflections of gold. Nothing in his manner, save the feline control of his walk, gave him the look of the professional bouncer, but Jonathan could imagine the cooling effect he would have on the occasional troublemaker, descending on him like a smiling machine of fate and disposing of him with a single rapid gesture that most insouciant lookers-on would mistake for a friendly pat on the shoulder. The giant wore a close-fitting white turtlenecked jersey that displayed a pattern of muscles so marked that, even at rest, he appeared to be wearing a Roman breastplate under his shirt. In age, he could have been anywhere from thirty to fifty.

One of the girls detached herself from a co-worker and approached Jonathan's table. She was the second to do so, and she looked very nice indeed as she crossed the floor: full-busted, long-legged, and an ass that moved hydraulically.

"You would care to buy me a drink?" she asked, her accent and phrasing revealing that she was a recent immigrant.

Jonathan smiled good-naturedly. "I'd be delighted to buy you a drink. But I'd rather you drank it back at your own table."

"You don't like me?"

"Of course I like you. I've liked you ever since we first met. It's just that..." He took her hand and assumed his most tragic expression. "It's just... you see, I had this nasty accident while I was driving golf balls in my shower and..." He turned his head aside and looked down.

"You are joking me," she said, not completely sure.

"In fact, I am. But I do have some serious advice for you. Did you see that fellow who came in here after I did? The one with the blue raincoat?"

She looked over toward the far corner, then wrinkled her nose.

"Oh, I know," Jonathan said, "he's not as pretty as I am. But he's loaded with money, and he came here because he's shy with women. When you first approach him, he'll pretend he doesn't want anything to do with you. But that's just a front. Just a game he plays. You keep at him, and by morning you'll have enough money to buy your man a suit."

She gave him a sidelong glance of doubt.

"Why would I lie to you?" Jonathan said, offering his palms.

"You sure?"

He closed his eyes and nodded his head, tucking down the corners of his mouth.

She left him and, after a compulsory pause at the bar so as not to seem to be flitting from one fish to another, she patted her hair down and made her way to the far corner. Jonathan smiled to himself in congratulation, sipped at his Laphroaig, and let his eyes wander over the photograph of Amazing Grace. Lovely girl. But time was passing, and he would have to make some kind of move soon if he was going to meet her.

Oh-oh. Maybe not. Here he comes.

Like everything else about the giant, his smile was large. "May I buy you a drink, sir?" Quiet though it was, his voice had a basso rumble you could feel through the table.

"That's very good of you," Jonathan said.

The giant made a gesture to the waiter, then sat down, not across from Jonathan as though to engage him in conversation, but beside him, so they were looking out on the scene together, like old friends. "This is the first time you have visited us, is it not, sir?"

"Yes. Nice place you've got here."

"It is pleasant. I am called P'tit Noel." The giant offered a hand so large that Jonathan felt like a child shaking it.

"Jonathan Hemlock. But you're not West Indian."

P'tit Noel laughed, a warm chocolate sound. "What am I then?"

"Haitian, from your accent. Although your education has spoiled some of that."

"Very good, sir! You are observant. Actually, my mother was Haitian; my father Jamaican. She was a whore, and he a thief. Later, he went into politics and she into the hotel business."

"You might say they swapped professions."

He laughed again. "You might at that, sir. Although I was schooled in this country, I suppose something of the patois will always be with me. Now, you know everything about me. Tell me everything about yourself."

Jonathan had to smile at the disregard for subtlety. "Ah, here come the drinks."

The waiter had not needed an order. He knew what Jonathan was drinking, and evidently P'tit Noel always drank the same thing, a chalice of neat rum.

Jonathan raised his glass to the large transparency of Amazing Grace. "To the lady."

"Oh, yes. I am always glad to drink to her." He drew off the rum in two swallows and set the goblet down on the gold table.

"Beautiful woman," Jonathan said.

P'tit Noel nodded. "I am happy to know you are interested in women, sir. I was beginning to doubt. But if you are holding out for her, you waste your time. She does not go with patrons." He looked again at the photograph. "But yes. She is a beautiful woman. Actually, she is the most beautiful woman in the world." He said this last with the hint of a shrug, as though it were obvious to anyone.

"I'd like to meet her," Jonathan said as casually as possible.

"Oh, sir?" There was an almost imperceptible tensing of the pectoral muscles.

"Yes, I would. Does she ever come in?"

"Two or three times each evening. Her apartments are above."

"And when she comes, is she dressed like that?" he indicated the transparency.

"Exactly like that, sir. She is proud of her body."

"As she should be."

P'tit Noel's smile returned. "It is very good for business, of course. She comes. She takes a drink at the bar. She wanders among the tables and greets the patrons. And you would be surprised how business picks up for the girls the moment she leaves."

"I wouldn't be surprised at all, P'tit Noel."

"Ah. You pronounce my name correctly. It is obvious you are not English."

"I'm an American. I'm surprised you couldn't tell from my accent."

P'tit Noel shrugged. "All pinks sound alike."

They both laughed. But Jonathan only shallowly. "I want to meet her," he said while P'tit Noel's laugh was still playing itself out.

It stopped instantly.

"You have the eyes of a sage man, sir. Why seek pain?" He smiled, and with a sense of comradeship Jonathan noticed that the smile did not come from within. It was a coiled, defensive crinkle in the corners of the eyes. Precisely the gentle combat smile that Jonathan assumed to put the victim off pace.

"Why are you so tight?" Jonathan asked. "Surely many men come in here and express interest in the lady there."

"True, sir. But such men have only love on their minds."

"How do you know I'mnot sperm-blind?"

P'tit Noel shook his head. "I feel it. We Haitians have a sense for these things. We are a superstitious people, sir. The moment you came in, I sensed that you were trouble for Mam'selle Grace."

"And you intend to protect her."

"Oh yes, sir. With my life, if need be. Or with yours, should it sadly come to that."

"No doubt about how it would go, is there?" Jonathan said, skipping unnecessary steps in the conversation.

"Actually, none at all, sir."