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"Damn," Jack muttered, realizing his thoughts had shifted focus without his bidding. He was willing to become involved, given a situation in which he could make a difference. He could ignore that part of himself demanding to know why he had not packed it in long ago.

Nine years with Jason Stone. Capital cases. Part of a top investigative team building that ever brilliant defense. Then working on his own with a private license until at last he had begun saying no, hoping to decrease both the quantity and depth of downer time....

The brass ring in the bull's nose rapped sharply against the striker on the front door. When he looked toward the sound, the luminous coffee-brown eyes reflected hesitation. It was only a hunch, but he was willing to bet think time had ended.

At the second resolute stroke, he rose, rinsed his cup and tucked it away. He buttoned the shirt as he strode toward the door. His reluctance didn't show in the stride or the set to the shoulders. What he glimpsed through the peep hole supported his hunch.

He opened the door to face litheness, draped in a rich creaminess. Bold pleats of the jacket, drawn snugly in at the waist. Matching slacks clinging to lean hips and long thighs. A bright sheen to the milky-white silk blouse. Two silver bracelets about the left wrist. Dark brown hair cut short in a casual breezy style. "I'm Terri Delaney, Mr. Collier," she said, offering her hand.

"Make it Jack." Her grasp was cool, firm, polite. In three inch heels, the eyes were nearly level with his. And close. Distracting. Lake Tahoe came to mind, looking down from thirty thousand feet. The same shade of blue, seemingly bottomless. He wondered if the cameras she faced each night captured this impact.

"If you have time, I'd like to talk with you."

He said nothing, simply studied her face. Very little makeup. Not much need for what she wore. A softness to the hair that invited caress. And those remarkable blue eyes. Deep beneath delicate but pronounced brows. Eyes seemingly intent on revealing all. Could he say no, with these eyes upon him?

"May I come in?" she asked.

Was there a trace of uncertainty? Apprehension? He thought there might be. He was sure there was no polite way to duck her request. "Sure," he said, opening the door further and stepping aside.

He caught a faint fragrance that reminded him of honeysuckle. As he closed the door, she paused in the archway, letting her glance sweep the living room. The architecture is old Spanish. The high vaulted ceiling supported by massive oak beams is stained so dark as to appear black. Three windows span the north wall, each offering a picture postcard view. Jack had awakened this morning with a case of neats. Things were more or less in place.

"It's fantastic," she said. "The view, I mean."

"It's always that." The rich resonance in the words offset the Western unconcern for diction. He stepped around her into the dining room and began clearing brochures off the table, aware of faint tensions. The female in the male cave. Fundamental. Primitive.

"I'm sorry to intrude," she said, watching him closely. "But you didn't return my calls." Each word was wrapped delicately with faint sensual shadings, captivating counterpoint to precise articulation.

"I've been meaning to." When he reached for the photo, he noticed her watching. "My son. Billy," he said, setting it on the counter beside the reel-to-reel recorder.

"He's a fine looking young man."

"That's so," Jack said, looking back at the photo. The boy had been fifteen when it was taken. The laughter in the eyes hadn't changed much. "Maybe too good looking for his own good. He's something of a rascal."

"Does he live with you?"

"He owns the bedroom in the far corner," Jack said, nodding in that direction. "He's away at the moment." ...

"Have a seat," he said, waving at the chair as if also hoping to brush his thoughts aside. "Something to drink?" he asked.

"A martini?"

"I've Beefeaters and tonic."

"That will be fine," she said, sitting down, the bracelets jangling pleasantly against the table and each other.

He reached for the makings in the cabinet over the sink and poured Bacardi over ice for himself, adding water. When he set the drink in front of Terri, she took a sip.

"About right?" he asked.

"Yes, thank you."

He started the recorder, then sat down, noting her uneasiness.

"Do we need that?" she asked.

"It beats taking notes I can't read."

She nodded acceptance, toying with her bracelets. She remained uneasy. To get beyond that, he asked, "How's June doing? She sounded good on the phone."

"Very well. The bars on the windows are gone. And the alarms. The armed guards. All those efforts to protect her father's art collection were smothering her. Now that it's been sold, she's enjoying her freedom. I think she's at peace with herself for the first time in her life."

"How did you meet her?" he asked, remembering their own meeting. They had established the fiction he was her new love. To the delight of both, it had become reality.

It had spoiled it for them, in ways he had not yet defined, when he discovered an ex-boyfriend who had decided if he could not have her, no one would. When he had come for her, Jack had shot that sick sad sorry son of a bitch. And as blood spread upon the snow white carpet, he had cried, "That's damned well enough of this shit!"

Suddenly he realized he had missed part of what Terri was saying.

"... when she sold the collection, the station asked me to look at the personal side, what the loss would mean, what she hoped to gain, and so forth. We had a good deal of fun, taping that spot. We still do, when we're able to get together." She hadn't been sidetracked by the brief excursion. There was a tenseness about her now.

"The station," he said, for lack of anything better. "That would be?"

"KTSV. The evening news. You haven't seen the show?"

"I'm not much into television. What's your part of it?"

"I do a human interest segment each night. Sometimes a broader piece for other shows."

"Are you good?"

The lips tilted upward at the corners. "I'll let you decide."

"June thinks you're great. 'Born to it,' she said."

"I wouldn't say that," she said, a distinct flush flooding into her cheeks, "but there's nothing I would rather do."

"And there's a blackmailer who can stop you."

"Unfortunately, that's true."

"Why me?" he asked. At her sharp probing glance, he continued. "I can name several firms with good track records. I've never tackled such a situation."

She straightened in the chair, her forehead creased with a frown. "I have found it difficult to trust strangers with this."

He tugged at his ear, aware of her intense scrutiny. "You don't know me," he said quietly.

"June does."

"So?"

She met his questioning glance, her eyes revealing only hints of her thoughts. He liked what he could see of them.

"It has all gotten beyond me," she said evenly. "It may not make much sense, but I feel I've absorbed June's confidence in you."

He gazed out the window. Lengthening shadows dimmed earlier brightness. Upper winds drifted jet trails across the deepening blue of the sky. Wasn't it past time to cry enough? He took a slow measured breath, turned back to her and asked, "Want to tell me about it?"

She glanced at the recorder, then back at the drink she had ignored beyond the first polite sip.

"Terri, June told me all this went down eight years back. It's old news. Besides, I'm not in the judgment business. Even if I made one, would it matter?"

"Yes. It would."

"Then I won't."

"I'll hold you to that."

"Do it."

She straightened in the chair. Her eyes were fixed on a point on the table midway between them. He was sure she had mentally rehearsed the scene, over and over again. But faced with laying it out for him, that tedious preparation wasn't helping much. Long slender fingers gripped the glass, as if seeking support. "It happened while I was in Las Vegas with some people from the studio."

She paused, tightening her grip on the glass. "To make a grim story short, I invited a complete stranger into my bed. It was a sick sadomasochistic encounter, to put the best light on it. I have no idea how I could have been so foolish. Too many martinis hardly explains it."

Each word came more quickly than the one before it. "Someone has it on video tape. Three years later, I received a copy with the first demand. I've been paying ever since. It must end." She leaned on her forearms, clinging to the glass with both hands.

"Is it keeping you from getting together with Mr. Right?"

"No. There's nobody special."

"What is it, then?"

"My work," she said, tension easing some. "If that tape were delivered to the station, I would be dumped immediately. I would never work in the industry again."

"I don't want to seem flippant, but so what? Lots of us do spectacularly stupid things in those crazy years of youth. If you weren't in public view, no one would be up tight about a sex scene, played eight years back."

"I'm not sure that's true," she said, the words oddly truncated. "However, it's beside the point. I would continue paying to keep what I have, but I've nearly exhausted my resources."

"I see," he said, tugging gently at his ear.

"But you don't really, do you?"

"I can't seem to get beyond you making a career change, then telling this creep to bug off."

Slowly, deliberately, she clasped her hands on the table, watching every move as if in each lay the words she sought. "Do you ever think about your childhood?" she asked, without looking up.

"Often. It was great time for me."

"For me it wasn't." She looked up, blasting him with those blue, blue eyes. "I can sum it up in one word: lonely." Her grip tightened; the knuckles began to whiten. "My parents divorced when I was little. Mother fought for custody of my sister and I. And she won." Disgust wrapped each word.

"She dumped us both into a private boarding school. I seldom saw her. I haven't seen her at all since my sister died. Father tried in his way, but it wasn't enough. Weekends and holidays were exciting, when the other kids had escaped back to their homes."

"A lot of kids deal with worse."

"That's true. There are those who would have said I was on top of the world. But I wasn't in it. Or of it. Don't you see? Every waking moment, I wanted desperately to participate, to be part of what lay beyond the wrought iron fence outside my window.

"Then one morning, I awoke with a certainty I wanted to be a part of television, part of filling the empty hours of others."

She unclasped her hands and placed them flat upon the table. "I started as a receptionist. For me, life began only then. I felt I was part of real happenings. That what I was doing was significant. Important. I became addicted. Hooked completely."

She grabbed her glass and swallowed thirstily; she seemed unaware of having done so. "I had only dreamed of being on screen. I never expected it to happen. Then it did. I've never come down off the high of that.

"The mail is filled with compliments, suggestions, and ideas. People are beginning to recognize me on the street. They smile and want my autograph. And to shake my hand. I know it's meaningless, in the long scheme of things, but I thrive on this interaction. Is anything wrong in that?"

"Nothing comes to mind," Jack said, sure she hadn't heard him.

"I don't know," she continued, speaking more slowly, "whether people relate to me or to what I represent. When a man makes a pass, I wonder if it's me he wants. Really me. Or my body, which is more or less an accidental arrangement of genes. I can get hung up on that.

"But with my work, I don't care. I am an integral part of what people respond to. It's sufficient for me, however small that part may be. I won't give it up. I can't."

She collapsed back into the chair. Her hands fell to her lap. "I've never tried to enunciate such thoughts," she said, the words hushed, muted. "It didn't sound grand or heroic."

"I'm impressed."

She nodded. A thank you, maybe. For several moments Jack listened to Dexter Gordon's haunting sax, drifting in from the other room. He sensed those incredible eyes upon him, sensed tension, and a patience he liked. He looked up and asked, "Suppose I was willing, how do you see this going down?"

"I'm expecting another demand soon. I'm hoping you can follow the money."

"It doesn't always work out."

"So I've been told." Each word was laced with disgust. "I don't understand why."

"The pickup is the part of the exercise most carefully planned. A dozen well trained people can miss it."

"I still don't understand."

For a moment, he considered giving further explanation. But it occurred to him she might not be able to even hear the words just now.

"Look, Terri," he said quietly. "It's worth trying, but face it. There's no guarantee. We could easy come up empty. So I'd also look around in Vegas, since that's where the tape was made."

As he spoke, tension returned to the set of the shoulders, a touch of fear to the eyes. "I'd check on those who were with you. If that didn't lead to anything useful, I'd start down the list of everyone you know."

"I'm uncomfortable with that."

"Can you tell me why?"

"I'm not sure." She paused, her forehead creased with a frown, the eyes downcast. "Why involve so many people? Wouldn't it increase the risk of discovery?"

"Whatever we do, there'll be risk. Still, it's not as if you were putting your life on the line."

Her look was sharp, piercing. He felt as if he had tripped over a dark obscure corner of private thoughts. "You're right, of course," she said.

She combed hair back over her ear with long slender fingers. At the end of each stroke, there was a faint tremble in them. When she looked up, she said. "But to be forced to give up my career, ..." She shook her head slowly. "That would be a death of sorts."

She turned to gaze out over the Valley, as if to be certain the sun was still on course. When she turned back to face him, she said, "If you're willing, I'd like you to do whatever you think best."

"You're sure?"

The eyes were clear, calmer now. "As sure as I can be."

Jack sipped at his drink, watching her work at erasing fears. One of the good ones, June had said. One we can't afford to lose. When he found himself gazing at Billy's picture, he looked away. If he could get his hands on that tape, it would make a difference to Terri Delaney.

There would be the wondering about what awaited around the next corner, behind the closed door, the figurative leaning into the edge of the downhill slope. And, with luck, the winning. He glanced longingly at the travel brochures stacked on the counter, then turned back to her and said, "Let's do it."

"I brought some money," she said quickly, reaching for her purse.

"Let me nose around a bit. If I can do you any good, I'll bill you."

"Suppose it's more than I can afford."

"We'll work out something."

"Such as?" she asked quickly, a frosty tint in the blue of her eyes.

He chuckled. "Get real. Do I look to be hurting?"

"No," she said, meeting his glance evenly. "You don't."

"It might be fun, though."

"Uh huh." The eyes showed hints of sparks growing brighter, ready to be showered upon him.

"Laugh a little, Terri. It beats hell out of crying."

"I don't feel like it, even if you're right."

He smiled, content with the touch of lightness in her eyes. "Now I need details. Are you up to it?"

"What kind of details?" The sparks were back.

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Milo Hetch was spelled out in an arc on the glass door in gold Roman lettering. Confidential Investigations filled a single straight line of smaller letters. Terri had come to this man, after receiving the first demand. She had been so put off by the experience it had taken her four years to get to Alfred & Styles.

Jack stepped inside to face the smiles of welcome on two lovely faces. "I'm Penny," the woman nearest the door said. She leaned forward and asked, "Can I help you?" The ruby red blouse had fallen away from her throat.

Jack was more interested in the speculative curiosity in the hazel-green eyes than in the milky white breasts. "I'm here to see Mr. Hetch," he said. "The name's Collier."

Penny continued to gaze at him, ignoring the desk calendar open in front of her. "Won't you sit down? He's expecting you. Let me see if he's available."

She stood and walked toward the inner door. She was accustomed to the three inch heels. The short black cotton skirt hugged hips and thighs in all the right places.

Jack glanced at the other woman, returned her smile, and sat down in one of the chairs. The fabric was stiff, crinkly, not the naugahyde it had appeared to be. He had thought the floor was surfaced with cork tiles. Seated, he could see it was linoleum, reasonably new but showing signs of wear.

When Penny stepped back into the room and nodded, Jack stood and moved toward her. Nice, he thought, the way she's posed herself. Chin up. The back arched a bit. The stuff of centerfolds.

He paused to look into inviting eyes. "Thanks," he said, then stepped into the office, closing the door behind him.

The big man behind the desk stood. His welcoming smile clashed with the watchful look in the bright blue eyes. His movie-star looks included brows jutting out over the eyes, a patrician-like nose, full lips, and a heavily muscled jaw that bespoke of power and determination. He leaned out over the desk, offering his hand. As Jack took it, he couldn't fail to note the .357 magnum, tucked into the holster under the left arm. "Milo Hetch, Mr. Collier," he said, gripping Jack's hand tighter than need be.

"Make it Jack."

"Right. Park it," he said. When he straightened, the gun bulged under the wine corduroy jacket. The string tie featured a jade stone mounted in gold. He sat back down with care, then glanced at the full length mirror to his left. He tucked errant strands of black hair back where he decided they belonged. He leaned out over the desk and said, "Terri Delaney. What a babe that one was." He shook his head, remembering. "But that was some time ago."

"About five years."

Hetch nodded. "You got credentials?"

Jack laid his identification wallet on the desk, open to his license. Hetch regarded it at length, almost as if he were a slow reader. Finally, he shoved it back toward Jack. "Can't be too careful. Know what I mean?" The grin that accompanied the words acknowledged Jack's membership in the same elite club in which he himself was a member of high standing. "So what are you looking for?"

"Nothing special," Jack said. "Just trying to get an idea what I'm up against."

"That's always good to know," Hetch said. "But like I told you on the phone, I don't have much myself. I wired the package she mailed to the Van Nuys branch. When I'd eyeballed it in the right box, I parked my butt. Three damned days. Boring shit. Know what I mean?" As if to accent the point, the chin jerked forward slightly. The face followed along, eyes intent.

Jack nodded and Hetch continued. "When anybody was inside, I kept a fix on that box. Nobody went near it. For no reason I've got, the bug quit. So I went inside to check. The package was gone. I got no idea how."

"How many people were inside when it quit?"

"Three or four. I'd have to check my notes."

"One of them must have grabbed it and silenced that bug some way."

Hetch leaned closer. "I told you. Nobody went near that box." There was a touch of bristle in the words.

"That's right. You did."

Hetch leaned back in the chair, then propped two polished wing tips on the desk. "So now you're going to give it try?"

"That's so. Any suggestions?"

Hetch stared at Jack's coat for several moments. He nodded as if in approval, glanced up at the ceiling, then back at Jack. "You're a guy who likes good things. Right?"

"That's true enough."

"A coat like that, it costs some change. And somebody's got to pay the bill. Know what I mean?"

Jack wondered if it was hard to grin and jerk the chin forward at the same time. He leaned closer, hoping his slight smile suggested interest. "I'm not real sure I do."

"What I'm saying is, don't take it too serious. Just walk it around the block. Shoot some pool. Catch up on the sack time. This broad will pay."

"You mean just kind of go through the motions."

"Yeah. There's no sense busting your butt for nothing. Right?" Hetch eased his feet to the floor and again leaned out over the desk. "She was something. Gets a man to thinking. Know what I mean?"

"You've two lively ladies out front."

Hetch chuckled. "Indispensable types on cold rainy nights."

"Penny comes on kind of strong."

"Not often." His grin broadened. "You ought to move on those goods." He stared down at his hands for a moment. "Penny can show you things that Delaney broad never thought of."

"I'm not sure I follow."

"Believe it, I tried to get close to that babe. Popped for dinner at the Brown Derby even. Nothing. A cold type. What'd she tell you was on that tape she's after?"

"Some kinky sex."

"That's what she told me. I couldn't buy it."

"Why not?"

"She's not the fun type. A man can tell. Know what I mean?"

"I think so."

"When I'm on, I make out fine."

Jack had never seen a man strut while seated behind a desk. This was a dandy, the king of roosters at work. He thinks he's irresistible, Terri had said. What he is, is a sleaze, she had added. Jack let his grin broaden and leaned closer to the desk in a conspiratorial manner. "I've been thinking," he said, lowering his voice further on each word. "I ought to get something better than a stick."

"What do you mean?" Hetch asked, leaning closer.

"To beat them off with."

"Beat off who?" Hetch asked suspiciously.

"The broads. A stick, see, it just doesn't hold up. Know what I mean?" His grin was no match for the leer Hetch has been tossing across the desk and he didn't brother to jerk his chin forward.

"You're putting me on." Caution had flooded the eyes.

"Ms. Delaney isn't a client, mister." Jack leaned closer. "She's a very dear friend."

Hetch straightened. "Anything else you need, Mr. Collier?"

"I was by that post office this morning. The boxes can't be seen from outside."

"So?"

"So you sold her a tale for three thou."

Hetch slowly stood, the heavy jaw clenched, the eyes sparking with anger. "Move your ass on out of here."

"Ms. Delaney thinks you were scared off."

"Up yours."

From his billfold, Jack counted out ten one-hundred dollar bills. Hetch watched intently.

"Sit down," Jack said. "There's not much profit in beating on me."

For a moment, Hetch seemed undecided. Then he eased back down into the chair. "So what's with the bread?" he demanded.

"It's the bet."

"What are you betting, wise guy?"

"That you were not bought off."

Hetch's glance flicked between the stack of bills and Jack's eyes. "What do you need to prove I was?" he asked finally.

"Everything you know."

With his eyes fixed on the money, Hetch said, "There's this guy, Randal Smith. He ..."

"Smith?" Jack interrupted.

"I didn't ask for no birth certificate. Okay?"

Jack nodded, fingering the stack of bills.

"He said he had a problem. When he laid down two thousand, I listened. You would, too," he declared bluntly.

"Go ahead," Jack said.

"It was simple, really. Smith said this Delaney broad had problems. Disturbed was how he put it. He said he represented a guy looking out for her. Know what I mean?"

"I hear what you're saying," Jack said.

Hetch scowled, then continued. "So she has a sugar daddy, see? And he only wants to protect her."

"What were you asked to do?"

"Nothing, unless she looked me up. If she did, I was to go through the motions, but not waste time. I did like Smith said and that was the end of it."

"For all that grand and noble service, how much more did you pull in?"

"Don't get wise, asshole."

Jack covered the stack of bills with his hand. "How much?"

"Another five. Now what the fuck else you need?"

"A phone number. An address, maybe."

"He called every day."

"Description?"

"Six feet. Close to one-eighty. About forty. Expensive conservative threads. Pale curly blond hair."

When Jack pulled his hand back and stood, Hetch scooped up the stack of bills.

"I have this feeling," Jack said.

"Move it out of here, wiseass."

"Like you're holding out."

"Up yours."

Jack strode to the door. He turned with his hand on the knob. "I'll be disappointed if I find you've done something dumb like that."

"Fuck you."

When he glanced at his watch, it was a few minutes past five. He grabbed a Michelob from the fridge, went into the living room and settled into the recliner. On the remote, he pressed buttons until KTSV came up on the screen. He let his mind wander, ignoring the hyped news accounts of assorted tawdry happenings.

The Ford truck caught his attention. He watched it do things no owner would ask of it. Then a chubby happy thief explained how, if Jack would only hurry right down, he could sell him that truck for a thousand dollars less than he had paid for it....

Terri Delaney burst upon the screen. Come morning, Jack realized he might not remember what she was saying. But he would remember the impact. The camera zoomed in on delicate features. An intense immediate presence. He realized he hadn't noticed what she was wearing.

She came across as if her message were vital to him, one he had to grasp. Speaking quickly, each word still reached out and drew him ever closer.

There was a shot of a kid in a hospital bed. Then she led him so deeply into the sorrow of his parents, Jack felt as if the boy were his own son. All with a passionate caring. Her image seemed etched into the screen when it went blank in that instant before they cut to a commercial.

Jack punched the TV off and stared at the darkened screen.

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Headed for Hollywood on the Ventura Freeway, Jack remained alert for harried, hasty drivers. This stretch of freeway always seemed jammed, even mid-morning. His thoughts were of Charlie Hoffler, head of the news division at KTSV. He was Terri's boss and had been, when he had invited her to join him for a weekend in Las Vegas....

"What in hell?" His glance was locked on the rearview mirror. His pulse rate had jumped. His mouth felt dry. It was the same black Chrysler that had followed him onto the freeway earlier. Occupied with his thoughts, he had been dawdling along in the right lane. Not many do. He didn't doubt for a moment he was being followed. But why? It couldn't be related to the situation with Terri. It was much too soon.

Some things seem to have no ending. But the situation with June had been wrapped tighter than most. A man had died. And Jack had pulled the trigger. Brothers, even cousins or friends can take to the feud. But the man had not had that kind of friends. And no relatives at all. So what is this?

From the Ventura freeway, a part of the traffic stays to the right for the Hollywood freeway. The rest continue east toward downtown L.A. Jack worked his way into the left most lane for southbound traffic, already bunching and slowing for the junction.

He stopped at the last moment in the small V-shaped island where traffic flowed passed on both sides. He grabbed a map from the glove compartment and opened it, watching the rearview mirror.

The driver of the Chrysler had no choice. There was no way to stop and it was too late to avoid taking one fork or the other. He opted for the Hollywood freeway and was soon lost to sight. A plate number would have helped; Jack's view had been blocked.

He tucked the map away, waited for a gap, then continued east toward the city. The Hollywood freeway was the obvious route. But there would be a black Chrysler waiting up ahead. Surface streets would take longer, but he would be impossible to find.

... There had been no listing in the phone book. But a call to Ashton Investigations and a five minute wait on the Maestro had produced the address. Jack parked a block down from the apartment unit, in the deep shadows of an elm. From beneath the seat, he retrieved the vinyl gun case and removed the 9 mm Smith & Wesson auto-load. He checked to see a round was chambered, dropped the three extra clips into the jacket pocket, then tucked the pistol behind his waistband.

The three story complex was U-shaped, with twenty units on each floor. All but the corner apartments opened to the center. Not a home for swingers, Jack decided. It was quiet.

The pool was still, except for ripples directed randomly by the gusting breeze. No one was out or about. Judging from the number of lighted windows, most of the tenants were home, probably parked in front of television sets. #216 was dark.

There were two stairways up from the subterranean garage. Jack examined the most likely path. He grabbed a chair from beside the pool and walked up one flight. Light and the blaring television set suggested those in the corner apartment were settled in for the night.

Silently he unscrewed the bulb in the light fixture until it went out. He positioned the chair back inside the hallway, then sat down. He covered the Smith in his lap with his hands.

It was a night for goblins and witches. For the sake of the kids, Jack hoped it would hold until Halloween. Leaves, hustled by the breeze, scratched along the concrete deck, piling up against the wrought iron railing. Watching them eased the waiting time.

He heard footsteps from his right and tensed. A man. And he had size. When the shadowy figure appeared, he said, quietly, "Mr. Hetch, I'm disappointed."

Hetch whirled, his hand diving up under his coat.

Without lifting the Smith, Jack flicked the safety off. The slight sound rolled outward with the wind-swept leaves. Hetch froze, then slowly eased his hand out from under his coat. "You know where my office is, asshole."

"I'm pressed for time," Jack said, standing, watching caution intrude into angry eyes. "I need to know how you set me up. And why."

"Where's your billfold?" Hetch snapped.

"I paid a thou for all."

"Then what's in it for me?"

"Call it professional courtesy."

"Fuck off."

Jack's arms felt heavy; they seemed to be pulling him to his knees. The pistol seemed to weigh a hundred pounds. Why are there so many guys who can't tell a bluff from a promise?

Jack let his glance sweep the emptiness about them. Two leaves lingered between Hetch's feet, then rustled on their way. He stepped closer to the man, watching caution grow in the bright eyes. He had hoped for a trace of fear, but he saw none. Inwardly he sighed.

Forcing his smile, he took another step which put him but inches from the bigger man. The mints Hetch had chewed seemed to accent the odor of bourbon. Jack raised the pistol. As if planning a surgical incision, he scraped a cheek with the front sight.

"What the fuck?" Hetch cried, trying to back away, trapped by the wrought iron railing.

Jack jabbed upward. Hetch flinched. A small drop of blood welled up from the nick. "My," Jack said softly, "that is really sensitive skin."

Jack backed away, watching the drop fall. It splattered on Hetch's forefinger. He rubbed with his thumb, watching the spreading stain.

Jack leaned closer, staring at the cheek. "Such a handsome face. It's a shame." He shook his head in mock pity, then suddenly lifted the pistol back to his ear. He had flashed the order to strike, when Hetch cried, "643-5547. I made a call."

Jack held the pistol where it was, fighting to hold back trembles at the closeness of it, working at his smile. As if from a distance, he noted another drop of blood growing on the cheek. "Why hold that out?"

"You could have blown the deal," Hetch said, eyeing the pistol.

"And that was?"

"For your name, I got another five thousand this morning."

"Randal Smith was by."

Hetch nodded. He was leaning further backward now. The second drop of blood landed on his shirt, spreading with surprising rapidity.

"You're bleeding all over yourself," Jack said. "You best get inside and take care of it."

Hetch was still for a time, then cautiously stepped to the right. Jack lowered the Smith to his side.

"I might just look you up," Hetch said, glowering now.

"Whatever's right, mister."

As if tired of holding his version of the drop-dead look, Hetch turned and shuffled to the door of his apartment. He didn't look back as he stepped inside. The moment Jack was certain the door would slam, he rushed for the stairs, tucking the Smith away.

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Milo Hetch is only one of many Jack has talked with who have not shared all they know. And this bothers, for it's what you don't know that can so quickly do you in. But Jack has ways. He'll find the answers he needs. ... Provided he lives long enough. --- ActionTales.com

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