The Crystal Palace smelled like any other bar in the morning-like stale smoke and spilled beer and disinfectant. Fortunato found Chrysalis in a dark corner of the club, where her transparent skin made her nearly invisible. He and Brennan sat down across from her.

"You got the message, then," she said in her phony English-public-school accent.

"I got it," Fortunato said. "But the trail's cold. The Astronomer could be anywhere by now. I was hoping you might have something else for me."

"Perhaps. You know a yo-yo calls himself 'Demise'?"

"Yes," Fortunato said. His fingernails dug uselessly at the urethane finish on the table.

"He was in about an hour ago. Sascha got a reading off him, loud and clear. 'He's going to fucking kill me. That twisted old fuck."' "Meaning the Astronomer."

"Right you are. This Demise seemed completely round the bend. Had quite a lot on his mind, Sascha said."

"You mean there's more," Fortunato said. "Yes, but the next bit's going to cost you."

"Cash or favors?"

"Blunt this morning, aren't we? Well, I'm inclined to say favors. And in honor of the holiday, I'll even extend you a line of credit."

"You know I'm good for it," Fortunato said. "Sooner or later."

"I don't like charging for bad news, in any event. The other line Sascha heard was, 'Maybe he'll be too busy with the others. "'

"Christ," Fortunato said.

Brennan looked at him. "You think he's going on some kind of killing spree."

"The only thing that surprises me is that it took him this long. He must have been waiting for Wild Card Day out of some fucked-up sense of drama or something. Was there anything else?"

"Not about the Astronomer. But there is another matter. This is perhaps more in your bailiwick, Yeoman. I got a call this morning advising me to keep my eyes open for a certain stolen book. Three books, actually. Two of them are stockbooks with rare postal stamps in them. It was the third the caller seemed most interested in. Its the size of a regular schoolboy's notebook, blue in color, with a bamboo pattern on it."

"So who was the caller?" Brennan asked.

"Unimportant. What interests me is the group he seems to belong to. It took me a bit of time and a bit of influence, but I came up with a name."

"What's your price?" Brennan said.

"Information for information. I think if we should put our heads together on this, we'd both benefit. But you mustn't hold out on me. I'll know it if you do."

"Agreed. "

"Does the name 'Shadow Fist Society' mean anything to you?"

Brennan shook his head. "Not much. I've heard the name in Chinatown. That's all."

"All right," Chrysalis said. "Suppose I mentioned a name high in the organization. He's known as 'Loophole.' Mean anything to either of you?"

Fortunato shook his head. Brennan was looking at the table. "Yeah," Brennan said. "I've heard of him. His real name's something-or-other Latham. As in Latham, Strauss, the law firm. The story is that nobody knows if the wild card virus destroyed all his human feelings, or if he's just a very, very good lawyer."

Chrysalis nodded. "A fair trade. Shall we go another round?"

"You first," Brennan said.

"By sheerest coincidence I got another call this morning. From a man named Gruber. He's a broker-pawn, rather than stock, I'm afraid. He was concerned about some stockbooks full of stamps an ace tried to sell him this morning. Called, apparently, Wraith. Works as a thief. She's just a girl, and she's quite a bit over her head in this. Anyone who found those books would be in a position of enormous power."

"Or end up dead," Brennan said.

"Pray go on," Chrysalis said. "I'm all ears."

"You've probably guessed the rest," Brennan said. "Maybe you don't want to mention the name. It's a dangerous name. Therefore very valuable."

"Say it," Chrysalis said.-

"Kien," Brennan said. "I'm convinced Loophole is working for Kien. Something must have happened, something big. If Loophole is that desperate for the book it must be something of Kien's, something really important. Something damaging. And if the Shadow Fist Society is Kien, they could be everywhere." He stood up. "This is where we part ways, my friend."

Fortunato took his hand. "Thanks. If I find out anything about those books I'll let you know."

"Good luck," Brennan said. By the time he hit the front door he was running.

Chrysalis leaned across the table. "This 'Demise,' is he valuable to you, then?"

"If he can take me to the Astronomer, he is."

"Why can't you use your powers to find this Astronomer for yourself?"

"They're no good against him. He's got me jammed, like they used to jam radar with tinfoil. I couldn't even see him if he was standing right over there." He pointed and Chrysalis, her eyes suddenly afraid, turned slowly to follow his finger. "No," she said. "No one there."

Fortunato was no longer looking at her. He was building up the image of a tall, grotesquely thin man with brown hair and a ravaged face. If Demise was close enough, within a few blocks, Fortunato could find him just by concentrating.

He opened his eyes.

"Canal Street," he said. "The subway."

10:00 a.m.

By the time he got into the crooked, winding streets of the West Village, Jack had started to wonder whether he should cross over toward the East Side and Jokertown or continue down toward what was clearly the center of action in the city today, Jetboy's Tomb.

At least he was in more familiar territory now. Spotting a familiar facade on Greenwich, he fumbled in his breast pocket and found the creased color snapshot Elouette had sent him the previous Christmas. Obviously Cordelia had blossomed, but the likeness would suffice.

The bar was called the Young Man's Fancy. It was a sort of social were-creature. From its opening first thing in the morning, it was a solid blue-collar, working-class joint. Then, about six in the evening, it underwent a shift switch and utter sea change. All night, Young Man's Fancy was a gay bar. Whatever its guise, the Fancy was one of the oldest businesses in the Village.

Jack took the three steps in one and swung open the door. It was dark inside, and his eyes took their time adjusting. He crossed the width of the rectangular room, hearing peanut shells crunch under his size-elevens.

The bartender looked up from polishing a tray of Bud glasses. "Help you?"

"Maybe you were looking out the window this morning," said Jack. He held up the photograph. "You see her?"

"You a cop?"

Jack shook his head.

"Didn't think so." The bartender scrutinized the picture. "Mighty pretty girl. Your woman?"

Jack shook his head again. "Niece."

"Right," said the bartender. He scrutinized Jack more closely. "Ain't I seen you in here about six?"

"Probably," said Jack. "I come here. The girl in the picture-have you seen her this morning?"

The bartender squinted thoughtfully. "Nope." He looked appraisingly at Jack. "Reckon she really is your niece, huh? Lost, strayed, or stolen?"

"Stolen." Jack scribbled a number on a Hamms napkin. Bagabond had given him Rosemary's direct office line. "Do me a favor, okay? You see her, whether she's alone or with someone else, leave a message here." He headed for the door. "Appreciate it," he said back over his shoulder.

"Gotcha," said the bartender. "Day or night, anything for a customer."

She had the cabbie drop her at Freakers. The club was jumping even at 10:20 in the morning, and the doorman who handed her out of the cab looked as if he were already two or three sheets to the wind. His soft white fur was rumpled, and his red eyes were both bleary and bright at the same time. He indicated the door to the club, but Roulette merely shook her head, and headed off toward the Crystal Palace.