"I must have applied the wrong makeup."

We wandered through the drugstore, picking up the necessary contraband. As long as we were in Auberge, we could buy and do pretty much what we wished.

Once we left the complex, we were subject to the drearier laws of the City and County of Los Angeles, State of California, United States of America. Which would mean we'd be about as safe as we were in Auberge, but we'd have to handle our own bribes.

Ann placed the drugs in an attachй case while I forked over some gold to the proprietor of Selene Pharmaceuticals, whose paisley shirt sported a patch embroidered with the name Tom. He hardly raised an eyebrow at the way in which we cleaned out his inventory of psychoactive drugs. His mind was quite probably elsewhere.

I lugged the attachй out of the store. "All we need now is a spaceship."

"I've been checking into that," Ann said. "Commercial Phoenix flights are all booked for the next five months, and no one is willing to sublet us some room. I even went as far as finding out about the two old NASA shuttles. It turns out that they're such rusty hulks, they'd cost billions to get working again."

"Well, we can't do it from the ground. The direct broadcast satellites can only be modified in orbit."

She smiled. "There is a way. A company called StratoDyne has filed Chapter Eleven bankruptcy."

I snorted. "I don't think even Zacharias has enough dough to buy a shuttle manufacturer."

"He won't have to. The owner will give us the company and its one working shuttle for practically nothing."

That puzzled me a tad. "Why do you think that?"

She smiled wickedly. "He draws to inside straights."

It was all she had to say.

The first blast of autumn cold blew through Old Downtown the next night. Twilight colored the sky a deep, somber red as Ann and I made our way from my office to Auberge. Wind eddied around the little hill and headed toward Westwood and Santa Monica. The frigid breeze transformed street dust and paper trash into dancing spirits, whirling like drunken showgirls down the avenues and alleys.

We passed through the security entrance to head for the Casino of the Angels. I wore a tux for one of the rare times in my life. Basic black with a light blue shirt that lacked all the effeminate ruffles that seemed currently in fashion. If I was a sore thumb, I was proud of it.

Ann had somehow managed to adhere an emerald evening gown to her skin. No detail of her allure could hide beneath the clinging fabric. She found some way to breathe, though. Did she ever…

A slit in the dress traveled up her left thigh to where it had no business being. A slender blue garter peeked out with every graceful step she took.

I expected half the casino to suffer myocardial infarction when she entered. No one gave her as much as a mild glance.

Eunuchs. Or worse.

She took a seat at the no-limit poker table. Familiar faces haunted that patch of green felt. Big time gamblers. She was ready to slaughter them in her own lovely way.

"The one in the grey sharkskin suit with the pink shirt is George," she whispered back to me without turning her eyes from the action.

I made a noncommittal sound and left the table. It might take a while for her to up the stakes. I sauntered over to the dining area.

I returned an hour or so later. The first words I heard from the table were, "Jesus Fucking Christ!"

The skinny, dark-haired man in the sharkskin suit and pink shirt threw down his cards in disgust. He made a motion as if standing to leave, then plopped back in his seat again.

"One more," he muttered, "one more."

George was a born target.

Ann smiled at him. She didn't have to breathe a word. Her expression said it all quite plainly: sucker.

The other five gentlemen at the table held divided opinions. Two of them looked as happy as Shriners at a hookers' convention, while the other three exuded all the warmth and personality of stale cigar smoke. One of the happy ones-a chubby old man with a prominent nosedealt the next hand of five card draw.

Ann tossed her head to one side, sending a cascade of gold over her shoulder. She drew her cards to play them close to her chest-which the lechers in the crowd finally appeared to notice.

The betting proceeded calmly, except in the case of George. He bet nervously and thoughtlessly. He was a plunger, all right, and a desperate one at that.

The pile of chips near Ann's elbow stood in shoulder high stacks. Dozens of stacks. Had it been piles of paper money, there wouldn't have been as much a mystique about it. Something in the way poker chips look and sound instills an almost religious reverence in people.

I lit a cigarette and stepped toward the table to kibitz.

Ann drew two cards and raised when her turn came about. The three grumblers-who looked as if they'd all come off the same boat from Sicily-folded immediately afterward. The fat man and a smiling, gaunt old gentleman remained in, hoping the odds would shift against her.

George stayed in, tossing his chips in angrily. His dark, tousled hair hung down in his eyes-eyes as furious as a cat cornered in an alley.

"Call," he said after the second round of raises. The chips skittered across the table to land in the center with the rest.

Ann laid down her cards. Three queens.

The plunger ground his teeth together and threw down his hand. Two pair with an ace kicker.

The other two players shook their heads at him and laid their cards face down.

"Lady Luck is certainly with you tonight, my dear." The fat man leaned back in his chair.

Ann smiled. It was George's turn to deal.

The skinny young man picked up the cards to shuffle them. He slammed the two halves of the deck together as though trying to hammer luck into it.

Ann gazed around the smoky room to find me. She smiled again and winked. Her eyes turned toward George, then back toward me.

The owner of StratoDyne dealt a round of five-card draw. Ann took three cards after the first round of bets, then immediately folded. This did little to endear her to several of the players, who would have forced her to stay in the game if the rules had permitted it.

One of the three little guys at the far end brightened visibly when he won the round.

George nearly bent the remainder of the deck in his fist. His right hand slid back toward the edge of the table, stayed there just long enough to tremble hesitantly, and safely returned to shuffle the cards.

I didn't like the looks of that particular motion.

"Stud," George muttered through thinned lips. He knocked a curl of black hair out of his eyes before dealing the hole cards.

Ann scanned the first round of face cards. Her gaze lighted on the fat man's card-a king.

"Fold," she said, sliding her cards forward.

George's knuckles popped.

Her face card had been a jack. To me, that meant that her hole card had been a king or lower. She didn't gamble-she played poker.

The kibitzers muttered among themselves as the rest of the hand played through. No one could help noticing that, while she wasn't winning anything at the moment, she also wasn't losing much. By the last round of betting, the fat man had squeezed out everyone but George. The younger man called.

He shouldn't have.

The fat man had four diamonds showing. Possible flush. The young man had a pair of black queens.

The fat man grinned, touched a hand to his thinning reddish-blond hair, and turned over his hole card. A king. Of clubs. He laughed, leaning back in his chair.

"Looks like I couldn't fool you, my boy! You won!"

The plunger flipped his hole card over to expose a third queen. "Three of a kind!" he shouted with sudden exuberance. His hands trembled toward the pile of chips.