The lead float was nosing majestically onto the Bowery. Behind it E S. 235's marching band swung into a snappy rendition of the "Pineapple Rag."

Senator Hartmann's open car was next in the line. An ace jogged beside the limo. At least Roulette presumed he was an ace. Most normal secret-service agents didn't run about dressed in white form-fitting jumpsuits complete with black hood covering face and head.

Hartmann beamed and waved, every inch an elder statesman. Someone in the crowd lining the street shouted out, "How about '88, Senator?"

"Suggest it. I'm ready," Hartmann called back, and grinned as the laughter and cheers rippled through the throng. Two more floats, the mounted patrol, then Riggs put the big Lincoln in gear, and they rolled out at a steady ten miles per hour.

"Why not an open car?" Roulette asked, and from overhead a whining answered as the sun roof slid back.,

"I may have lived on Earth for forty years, but I'm still a Takisian. I'm damned if I'm riding in an open car for anyone. And on Wild Card Day my enemies as well as my friends are abroad."'

Fifteen minutes later, and he dropped back onto the seat fanning himself with his handkerchief. "Dreadful weather."

"Here." She had been exploring while he had perched, on the roof and waved to the crowd, and had discovered the bar. "Dubonnet on ice. What an elegant lifesaver you are. Are you joining me this time?"

"Yes."

She moved in close, her thigh pressing against his. They each took a thoughtful sip, then she ran one long nail down his cheek, noting the way his sideburns lay in red-gold whorls against his white, white skin. She paused, and inspected the small isosceles-shaped scar on his pointed chin.

"What happened?"

"Combat training. Sedjur and my father agreed we should leave it as a reminder to move more quickly next time." And his face closed down while tears of grief blurred his lilac eyes.

It was the moment. She cupped his face between her hands, and kissed him, her lips coaxing the rigidity out of his mouth. A tear splashed warmly on her hand, as she licked the tiny point of moisture away.

"Why so sad?"

"Because Sedjur is dead, and my father, were he aware, would like to be. I think memory is a curse."

"Yes, so do I." Her hand slid down the satiny fabric of his waistcoat, and gripped his waistband. His gasp played counterpoint to the rasp of the zipper. "So let's explore sensation and the moment, and forget memories."

She had him free now, and was gently rolling his penis between the palms of her hands. He stiffened instantly, his back arching, and beads of sweat broke across his brow and upper lip.

"By the Ideal, woman, what are you doing?"

She gave him a Mona Lisa smile, took him in her mouth, and gave gentle suction. One hand shot out and hit the control, raising the window between them and Riggs. He moaned as her tongue teaseat the underside of his glans.

"Have mercy," he groaned, one hand twisting in her braids.

"All right." She drew back.

"The Ideal, you leave me like this?"

"Then let's go somewhere."

"The speech."

"Afterwards."

"Oh God!"

The subway car's metal wheels squealed as they pulled into Times Square. The doors hissed open and Spector got up, feeling better than he had all morning. The Astronomer had to figure he was dead, and the old man was having a very busy day. There wouldn't be any time for second thoughts about him.

He dug dried blood out from between his teeth with a fingernail and slipped through the standing passengers toward the door. A surge of people entering the car pushed him back; he shoulder-cut his way through them and out onto the platform in front of a couple trying to enter the car. The doors closed.

"Hey, man, you made us miss the train." The man was young and Hispanic with a snap-brim hat and purple pinstripe suit. A girl was holding onto the sleeve of his sealskin coat. He pushed Spector back and shook his head. "You goddamn space-case. Can't go anywhere in this town without running into jerks. Don't worry, baby. There'll be another along a few minutes."

Spector was looking at the girl. She was tall and slender, with dark hair and eves. She was wearing a heavy metal T-shirt with the name FERRIC JAGGER on the front. The pimp was carrying a soft-sided floral-print suitcase that was obviously hers. There was something about her that demanded attention. Spector could have some real fun with this one. Not sex, he didn't do that. He'd liked killing girls with the Astronomer, though. It was the only thing that got Spector off anymore. It would be a real charge to feel the life go out of this little number.

"Hey, man, what you lookin' at?" The pimp pushed him again, hard.

Spector's hatred and pain clawed their way out. He stared hard into the pimp's eyes. The other man made a soft sound as the air went out of him and he collapsed onto the platform. People nearby looked uncomprehending at the body for a few moments, then voices began to call out for a doctor.

He tugged at his mustache, happy at the pimp's death. The girl was staring down at the body, but there were no screams. Not yet.

He pulled the suitcase from the pimp's hand and smiled at the girl. "New in town? I can show you a thing or two. Local sights, whatever you want."

She pulled the suitcase from him and turned away. She didn't say a word.

Spector saw a transit cop moving in. He sifted into the crowd. It was a shame about the girl, but, overall, things were beginning to look a little brighter.

The Happy Hocker Pawnshop was in the Flatbush section of Brooklyn, on Washington Avenue and Sullivan Street. Jennifer took a cab to within a few blocks of the address and walked the rest of the way. It was located among other small, family-run businesses, including a delicatessen, a clothing store, a shoestore, and a small pizzeria. Everything but the deli was closed and the street around the pawnshop was virtually deserted, but dowh a couple of blocks and across the street a large crowd was gathered outside Ebbets Field for the Dodgers' annual Wild Card Day game. According to the sign across the main gate the Dodgers were playing the Los Angeles Stars. The teams were old rivals, and since the Dodgers were in the midst of another close pennant race, it looked like the crowd already streaming into the stadium would stretch the seating capacity of the old ballpark to its limit.

Jennifer glanced at her wristwatch. It was a few minutes after eleven. Tom Seaver, who'd been pitching for the Dodgers fbr almost all of Jennifer's life, was scheduled to go against Fernando Valenzuela, the Stars' young Mexican hurler. There was still time to get tickets, and watching the ballgame would be a more pleasant way to spend the afternoon than lunching with Gruber.

She peered through the dusty window of the pawnshop. If she hadn't known better, she'd have thought that it was closed along with most of the other small stores on the block. But Gruber had never broken an appointment with her before.

She tried the front door. It was unlocked, and she went in. Inside the pawnshop it was dark and still. Its narrow aisles and tall shelves crammed with unwanted merchandise, most of which had been around since the time of Gruber's father, always gave Jennifer a touch of claustrophobia. Guitars with broken strings, televisions with burned-out tubes, toaster ovens with frayed electrical cords, stained and torn coats and shirts and dresses, crowded the shelves in the dingy room, the ink on their pawntags faded to illegibility.

The only light in the room came from a naked bulb dangling from electrical wires in the cage behind the counter, Gruber's customary lair. But Gruber wasn't there.

She called out his name, but her words echoed hollowly and she had a sudden feeling of wrongness. She walked closer to the cage and the sole of her right shoe stuck in something tacky, like a blob of chewed-out gum. She looked down.