I stood and flexed backward, considered rubbing my anesthetized ass, decided against it. Next time, no cement. Next time no sitting up all night, watching for a hooker who could be in Saskatoon.

As I started to step off toward my car, a white Pontiac station wagon swung to the curb across the street. Orange Chihuly hair emerged, followed by a familiar face and halter.

Jewel Tambeaux slammed the Pontiac door, then leaned inside the passenger window to say something to the driver. A moment later the car sped off, and Jewel joined two women sitting on the hotel steps. In the pulsating neon they looked like a trio of housewives gossiping on a suburban stoop, their laughter sailing into the predawn air. After a moment, Jewel stood, hiked her spandex mini-skirt, and moved off up the block.

The Main was winding down, the action seekers gone, the scavengers just emerging. Jewel walked slowly, swinging her hips to some private rhythm. I angled across and fell in behind her.

?Jewel??

She turned, her face a smiling question mark. I was not what she expected. Her eyes moved over my face, puzzled, disappointed. I waited for her to recognize me.

?Margaret Mead.?

I smiled. ?Tempe Brennan.?

?Researching a book?? She moved her hand in a horizontal swath, indicating a title. ?Ass on the Hoof, or My Life Among Hookers.? Soft, Southern English, with a bayou cadence.

I laughed. ?Might sell. May I walk with you??

She shrugged and blew a puff of air, then turned and resumed her slow pelvic swing. I fell in beside her.

?You still looking for your friend, ch #232;re??

?Actually, I was hoping to find you. I didn?t expect you this late.?

?Kindergarten?s still open, sugar. Gotta do business to stay in business.?

?True.?

We walked a few steps in silence, my sneakers echoing her metallic clip.

?I?ve given up on finding Gabby. I don?t think she wants to be found. She came to see me about a week ago, then took off again. I guess she?ll turn up when she turns up.?

I looked for a reaction. Jewel shrugged, said nothing. Her lacquered hair moved in and out of shadow as we walked. Here and there a neon sign blinked off as the last of the taverns closed their doors, sealing in the smells of stale beer and cigarette smoke for another night.

?Actually, I?d like to talk to Julie.?

Jewel stopped walking and turned to me. Her face look tired, as though emptied by the night. The life. She pulled a pack of Players from the V in her halter, lit one, blew the smoke upward.

?Maybe you should go on home, cutie.?

?Why do you say that??

?You?re still chasing killers, aren?t you, ch #232;re??

Jewel Tambeaux was no fool.

?I believe there?s one out there, Jewel.?

?And you think it?s this cowboy Julie plays with??

?I?d sure like to talk to him.?

She took a pull on her cigarette, tapped it with a long red nail, then watched the sparks float to the pavement.

?I told you last time, he?s got the brains of a liverwurst sandwich and the personality of roadkill, but I doubt he?s killed anybody.?

?Do you know who he is?? I asked.

?No. These morons are about as scarce as pigeon shit. I pay them about as much mind.?

?You said this guy could be bad news.?

?There really isn?t much good news down here, sugar.?

?Has he been around lately??

She considered me, then something else, turning inward to an image or remembered thought at which I could only guess. Some other bad news.

?Yeah. I?ve seen him.?

I waited. She drew on her cigarette, watched a car move slowly up the street.

?Haven?t seen Julie.?

She took another pull, closed her eyes and held the smoke, then sent it upward into the night.

?Or your friend Gabby.?

An offering. Should I push?

?Do you think I could find him??

?Frankly, sugar, I don?t think you could find your own butt without a map.?

Nice to be respected.

Jewel took one last drag, flipped the butt, and ground it with her shoe.

?Come on, Margaret Mead. Let?s bag us some roadkill.?

JEWEL WALKED WITH PURPOSE NOW, HER HEELS CLICKING A RAPID tattoo on the pavement. I wasn?t sure where she was taking me, but it had to beat my cement perch.

We went east two blocks, then left Ste. Catherine and cut across an open lot. Jewel?s apricot sculpture moved smoothly through the dark while I stumbled behind, threading my way through chunks of asphalt, aluminum cans, broken glass, and dead vegetation. How could she do that in stilettos?

We emerged on the far side, turned down an alley, and entered a low wooden building with no sign to indicate its calling. The windows were painted black and strings of Christmas lights provided the only illumination, giving the interior the reddish glow of a nocturnal animal exhibit. I wondered if that was the intent. Rouse the occupants to late night action?

Discreetly, I glanced about. My eyes needed little adjustment, since the amount of light inside differed only slightly from that outdoors. Staying with the Christmas theme, the decorator had gone with cardboard pine for the walls and cracked red vinyl for the stools, accessorizing with beer ads. Dark wooden booths lined one wall, cases of beer were stacked against another. Though the bar was almost empty, the air was heavy with the smell of cigarette smoke, cheap booze, vomit, sweat, and reefer. My cement block began to hold more appeal.

Jewel and the bartender exchanged nods. He had skin the color of day-old coffee and heavy brows. From under them, he tracked our movement.

Jewel walked slowly through the bar, checking each face with seeming disinterest. An old man called to her from a corner stool, waving a beer and gesturing to her to join him. She blew a kiss. He gave her the finger.

As we passed the first booth a hand reached out and grasped Jewel?s wrist. With her other hand, she uncurled the fingers and laid the hand back in front of its owner.

?Playpen?s closed, sugar.?

I shoved my hands into my pockets and kept my eyes on Jewel?s back.

At the third booth Jewel stopped, folded her arms, and shook her head slowly.

?Mon Dieu,? she said, clicking her tongue against her upper teeth.

The booth?s single occupant sat staring into a glass of watery brown liquid, elbows on the table, cheeks propped on curled fists. All I could see was the top of a head. Greasy brown hair divided unevenly along the crown and hung limply to either side of the face. White flecks littered the area of the part.

?Julie,? said Jewel.

The face did not look up.

Jewel clicked again, then slid into the booth. I followed, grateful for the meager cover. The tabletop was slick with something I didn?t want to identify. Jewel leaned an elbow on its edge, jerked back with a wiping gesture. She dug out a cigarette, lit it, blew the smoke in an upward jet.

?Julie.? Sharper.

Julie caught her breath and raised her chin.

?Julie?? The girl repeated her own name, sounding as if she?d been roused from sleep.

My heart slipped in an extra beat and my teeth grabbed for my lower lip.

Oh, God.

I was looking at a face that had lived no more than fifteen years. Its color could be described only in shades of gray. The pallid skin, the cracked lips, the vacant, recessed eyes with their somber underlining looked like those of someone long deprived of sunlight.

Julie stared at us without expression, as if our images were slow in forming in her brain, or recognition a complex exercise. Then.

?Can I have one, Jewel?? English. She reached a trembling hand across the table. The inside of her elbow looked purple in the room?s muted glow. Slender gray worms crawled across the veins on her inner wrist.