Behind them, there was a cry of pain and the door crashed open.

"Uh oh," said Jack.

As Bagabond reached for Rosemary, she was shoved to the floor by the thin diner who'd burst into the room. He was fast. The gaunt man grabbed the books from Rosemary, tripping her as he sped past.

"Stop or die!" It was Don Tomaso.

As Bagabond struggled to catch Rosemary, she saw Don Tomaso draw a well-polished Beretta and aim at the fleeing thief. To her amazement, the man laughed hoarsely and halted. Mouth twisting, he turned and stared at the don, who convulsively fired once and then plunged heavily to the tabletop. It was a signal for the stunned capos to fire at the thief, who was now moving toward the window. The impact of the shots seemed barely to slow him down. Capos who tried to intercept him fell before his gaze as though their bullets were being deflected.

"Jack! Move! Now!" But even as Bagabond shouted her warning, she saw Jack face the killer. As the man caught Jack's eyes, the shapechanger's face grew scaly and the snout extended, teeth sharp and prominent. For an instant the thief hesitated, allowing the capos' bullets to slam into him. Then he attempted to bound over the giant alligator that now barred his path to the window.

As he leaped, the alligator's head swiveled up and clashed jagged-toothed jaws on the killer's foot. Screaming in shock and pain, the man pinwheeled in midair, blood spraying into the room from his truncated ankle. He crashed through the glass backward, still clutching the books to his chest as he curled up like a wounded snake.

Outside there was a thud and the groaning of transmission gears. The Mafiosi ran to the window and fired futile shots after the accelerating garbage truck.

"Bastard fell right into the truck!" The shooter at the window turned back to the room. "Don Tomaso, what do we do now?" he said off in the direction of the dead man.

The corpse said nothing.

The shooter did a little dance to avoid the alligator, which rumbled and swallowed contentedly.

Hiram had shifted a few guests around to make room for the refugees at his own table. With Water Lily on his left, Peregrine on his right, and beef Wellington, potatoes Hiram, white asparagus, and baby carrots in front of him, it was a delightful meal.

"Tuna?" Jane said in amazement. "This is tuna?"

"Not merely tuna," Hiram said. "White-meat albacore, flown in direct from the Pacific." No doubt she'd just eaten more than her share of chunk light meat out of cans. Tuna casserole, tuna surprise, tuna croquettes. He shuddered inwardly and covered another roll with butter. Food always made him feel better, even when the circumstances were dire. The thoughts of danger, death, and violence had receded into memory, smoothed away by fine wine, beautiful women, and an excellent hollandaise. Behind their table, the doors to the balcony were wide open, and a cool evening breeze moved through Aces High, perhaps gentled by Mistral's invisible hand.

"Well," Water Lily said,"this is wonderful."

"Thank you," Hiram said. She was bright, no doubt of it, but her innocence was astonishing. She had a great deal to learn about the world, this Jane Lillian Dow, but he suspected she would be a quick and enthusiastic student. He found himself wondering if she were a virgin.

"You're no New Yorker," Peregrine said to Water Lily. "Why do you say that?" She looked bewildered.

"A native would never say Hiram's food was wonderful. That's to be expected, after all. New Yorkers are more sophisticated than anyone on Earth, so they have to find something to dislike. That way they get to complain, and demonstrate their sophistication. Like this." Peregrine turned to Hiram and said, "I enjoyed the vichyssoise, really I did, but it just wasn't quite up to Parisian standards. But you know that, I'm sure."

Hiram glanced over at Jane, who looked as if she were afraid she'd committed some faux pas. "Don't let yourself be corrupted," he told her with a smile. "I remember when Peri first came to town. That was before the fashion shows and the perfume and Peregrine's Perch, before she had her name changed, even before the Playboy centerfold. She was a sixteen-year-old from-where was it, Peri? Old Dime Box, Texas?" Peregrine grinned at him, saying nothing, and Hiram went on. "The flying cheerleader, that was what the press called her. They were having a national cheerleading competition in Madison Square Garden, would you believe it? Peri was so sophisticated she missed the finals. She decided to save a little money by flying there herself instead of taking a cab, you see."

"What happened?" Water Lily asked.

"I had a street map," Peregrine said amiably, "but I was too shy to ask directions. I didn't think I'd be able to miss a big place like Madison Square Garden. I must have flown over Madison Square a hundred times, searching for it." She turned and raised an eyebrow, and her gorgeous wings stirred the air behind her. "You win, Hiram," she said. "The food is wonderful. As ever."

"Flying must be wonderful too," Jane said with a glance at Peregrine's wings.

It's the second best feeling there is," Peregrine said quickly, "and afterward you never have to change the sheets." It was said glibly; a familiar answer to a question she'd been asked a thousand times before. The rest of the table laughed. Jane looked slightly taken aback. Perhaps she'd expected something other than Peregrine's offhand wit, Hiram thought. She looked so fresh and young and lovely in the gown he had bought for her-no, loaned her, he corrected himself, because that was so important to her. He leaned forward, put his hand lightly on her bare arm. °I can teach you to fly," he said quietly. He could not give her true flight, of course, it was more a matter of floating, but no one had ever complained. How many men could make their lovers as light as a feather, or lighter than air itself?

Water Lily looked up at him, startled and beautiful, and drew back a little. Her eves seemed to search him for something and he wondered what it was. What do you look for, Water Lily? he thought, as tiny droplets of moisture began to bead on her smooth, cool skin.

The raw nerve endings from his severed foot screamed white-hot into his mind. It was even worse than his death pain, which, after months of living with it, he could now manage to keep humming along in the back of his mind. Until he needed it. Luckily, Spector had stopped bleeding almost immediately. He hoped that damned fucking animal choked on it. Pain lanced through his leg every time the truck hit a bump or pothole. He shoved the notebooks into the front of his pants. They were his now. He could name his own price. He hurt too much to read them, even if the light was good, which it wasn't. Maybe it was just as well he couldn't though. He'd had more trouble than he could handle in a single day.

The truck slowed to a stop. Spector tried to crawl through the garbage toward the edge. No good. His stump hurt like hell every time he so much as twitched. He heard the hydraulic arms start, and looked up. The dumpster went up and over, dropping several hundred pounds of refuse on him. Spector took a deep breath before he was completely covered. Something heavy landed on his raw ankle. He tried to ignore the pain and claw his way up to the top, but suddenly felt himself moving backward. Bottles, cartons, paper, chicken bones, half-eaten TV dinners, all being compacted together and into him. He folded up with the garbage and tried to tuck his stump under his other leg. The pressure stopped. He heard the crash of the dumpster being set back down. The truck lurched and began moving again.

"Fuck," he said, and was rewarded with a mouthful of soggy coffee grounds. He dug frantically through the garbage toward the open air, trying to ignore the pain. He hoped the truck didn't have any more stops before heading to the dump.