"You took your time answering the door."

"Actually, I did not hear you knock, sir."

"Then how come you turned up? For which, by the way, much thanks."

"Intuition. Premonition. As I told you, I am Haitian."

"Voodoo and all?"

"You know voodoo, sir?"

"Not really. No."

P'tit Noel smiled. "It exists. I passed some time studying the legal implications of crime committed under its influence. Because of the limits of my British education, I was prone to scoff at first."

"Which limitations are those?"

"The limitations of logic and evidence. Of European sequential thought."

"You were a student in Jamaica?"

"No, I was a lawyer, sir."

Jonathan admired the cool way he laid that on him. "You know, P'tit Noel, you've developed a magnificent way of saying 'sir.' When you use the word, it sounds like an arrogant insult."

"Yes, I know, sir."

P'tit Noel led him up a narrow staircase to the first floor where the ambience was that of the well-appointed town house-totally alien to the gaudy glitter of the club. They passed down a hallway and stopped before a double door of dark oak. P'tit Noel tapped lightly.

"I shall leave you now, sir. You may go in."

Jonathan thanked him again for his intervention, opened the door, and stepped into a lavishly furnished room of crimson damask and Italian marble.

Grace was indeed amazing.

She stood in the middle of the room, wearing a transparent peignoir of a white diaphanous material. Poised, her fine body was even more seductive when covered with a mist of fabric through which the circles of her brown nipples and the triangle of her ecu were a dim freehand geometry. But it was her stature that gave Jonathan pause. Little wonder the marble mantel in the photograph had seemed uncommonly high. Amazing Grace was only four feet six inches tall.

"Good evening, Grace," he said, settling his smiling gaze on her large oriental eyes.

Her nose wrinkled up and she laughed hoarsely. "Well, you handled that just fine, Dr. Hemlock."

"I'm unflappable. Particularly when I'm stunned."

"Is that so." She turned away and walked over the thick red carpet toward a little grouping of furniture before the fireplace. The splayed toes of her bare feet seemed to grip the rug. "Don't just stand there, boy. Come on over here and have a drink with me." She lifted a decanter of clear liquid and filled two sherry glasses, then she arranged herself on a small chaise longue, taking up all the space in an unprovocative way that denied the possibility of his joining her on it.

He took his glass and sat across from her and near the crackling wood fire.

"Happy times," she said, lifting her glass and draining it.

"Cheers." He swallowed-then he swallowed again several times to get it down. His eyes were damp and his voice thin when he spoke. "You drink neat Everclear?"

"Honey bun, I don't drink for flavor."

"I see." Jonathan had been surprised by her accent from the first. He had assumed that she, like her staff, was West Indian. But she was American.

"Omaha," she explained.

"You're kidding."

"Sweety, people don't kid about coming from Omaha. That's like bragging about having syphilis. Pour yourself another."

"No. No-thank you. It's good.But no thank you."

She laughed again, a rich brawling sound that was infectious. "Hey, tell me. No shit now. How can a swinging type like you be a doctor? You don't look like you'd waste time jamming nurses behind screens."

"I'm not that kind of doctor. What about yourself? How did you end up in the flesh trade?"

"Oh, just answered an advertisement. 'Positions wanted.' " She hooted a laugh. "But seriously, I did a couple years in Vegas working at a joint that specialized in uncommon meat. My being tiny makes tiny men feel big. Then I decided that management was more fun than labor, so I saved up my money and..." She made an inclusive sweep of her hand.

"It looks like you're doing very well."

"I'll probably make it through the winter." Instantly the shine in her eyes dimmed. "Is that enough?"

"Enough?"

"Small talk, honey bun."

Jonathan smiled. "Almost. One more question. P'tit Noel. Is he your lover? I only ask out of a sense of self-preservation."

"Are you kidding, man? I mean, he's nuts about me and all, that goes without saying. I imagine he'd eat half a mile of my shit just to see where it came from. But we don't fuck. I'm a little girl, and he is a big man. He'd puncture my lungs."

The flood of earthy imagery made Jonathan laugh.

"Besides," she continued, refilling her glass, "I don't use men anymore. When I need it, I have a girl in. Women know where the bits are and what they want. They're more efficient."

"Like the Everclear."

"Right."

He shook his head. "You're amazing, Grace."

She drank off half the glass. "So? What did you want to see me about?"

"I want to see Maximilian Strange."

"Why?"

"I believe he wants to see me."

"Why?"

"I'll ask him when I see him."

"What brought you here?"

Jonathan sighed. "Please, lady. That will slow us down a lot."

"All right. No peekaboo. Tell me why you want to see Max. We're partners. Or didn't you know that?"

Jonathan's eyebrows raised. "Partners? Equalpartners?"

She finished her drink and poured another. "No, Max doesn't have any equals. He's one of a kind. The most beautiful man; the most cruel man. He holds all the patents on excitement."

"It sounds like you feel about Strange the way P'tit Noel feels about you."

"That's not far wrong."

Jonathan rose and looked around. "Grace? There's something I want to do. And you can help me."

"Yeah?"

"I've got this problem. How can I tell you this without offending you? Honey, I've got to piss."

"Nut!" She laughed. "It's back there. Through the bedroom."

When he returned she had taken off her peignoir and was standing with her back to the fire, rubbing her bare buttocks and stretching to her tiptoes in the warmth.

"Do you know that you're nude, madam?"

"I like to walk around bare-assed. I feel free. And it turns men on, and I get a kick out of that. 'Cause they ain't going to get nothin'." She said this last in a low-down Ras accent.

"Well, you keep flashing that fine body around, you'll get yourself raped one of these days."

"By you?" she asked with taunting scorn.

"No, I've given up rape. The pillow talk is too limited."

She frowned seriously. "You know, if some stud decided to rape me, I don't think I'd fight it. I'd let him in. Then I'd tighten up the old sphincter and cut it right off."

"What a lesson that would be for him." But her taut, cabled muscles under smooth skin gave the image credibility, and he couldn't help a quick local wince.

His trip to the bathroom had been profitable. There was a window giving out onto a flat metal roof. He had left it open. If they came for him, he'd be able to give them a chase that would prevent anyone from thinking he was overeager to get into The Cloisters.

"Tell me, Grace. When you talked to Strange on the phone, did he give you any idea when he'd like to meet me?"

"What makes you think I called him?"

"You called me Dr. Hemlock. P'tit Noel didn't know my title."

Her feline composure faded perceptibly. "I guess I screwed up, right?"

"A little. But I won't mention it to Strange."

She was relieved, and he realized that Maximilian Strange did not tolerate error-even from partners. "When does he want to meet me?"

"They'll be here any minute now to pick you up."

"Uh-huh. Well, I don't think I can make it tonight. Let's set something up for tomorrow."

She smiled at the thought of anyone thinking about changing Max's plans. "No. He said tonight. He'll be pissed if you're not here."