The other patrons turned away, resumed eating, talking.
"You did it," Devil John remarked in a peculiar voice.
Croyd looked back and discovered that the man was pinching his nostrils shut.
"Did you spill something?" Croyd asked him.
"No. "
"Uh-oh. Hear that?"
Darlingfoot leaned to the side and bent low.
"Oh damn!" he said. "The bag's collapsed and he's running out the slash that guy made. Hey, kill my sense of smell too, will you?"
Croyd closed his eyes and gritted his teeth.
"That's better," he heard moments later as Darlingfoot reached cut and uprighted the bag, which made a sloshing, gurgling noise.
Croyd looked to the floor and beheld a huge puddle resembling spilled stew. He gagged slightly and looked away.
"What do you want to do now, Croyd? Leave the mess and take the rest, or what?"
"I think I'm obliged to take everything I can."
Devil John quirked an eyebrow and smiled.
"Well," he said, "go sixty-five hundred and I'll help you get it all together in a manageable form."
"Its a deal."
"Then, cover me if you can so the people in the kitchen don't notice me."
"I'll try. What are you going to do?"
"Trust me."
Darlingfoot rose, passed the top of the bag to Croyd, and limped back to the kitchen. He was gone for several minutes and when he returned his arms were full.
He unscrewed the top from a large empty pickle jar and set it on the floor beside the chair.
"Now if you'll just tilt the bag so the opening is right over the jar," he said, "I'll raise the bottom and we can pour him into it."
Croyd complied and the jar was well over half-full before the trickle ceased.
"Now what?" he asked, screwing on the lid.
Darlingfoot took the first from a stack of napkins he had brought with him and opened a small white bundle.
"Doggie bags," he said. "I'll just get all the solid stuff up off the floor and into them."
"Then what?"
"I've got a nice, fresh trash-can liner, too," he explained, stooping. "It should all fit inside with no trouble."
"Could you hurry?" Croyd said. "I can't control my own sense of smell."
"I'm mopping as fast as I can. Open the jar again, though, will you? I can wring out the rest of him from the napkins."
When the spilled remains had been collected into the pickle jar and nine doggie bags, Darlingfoot ripped the torn bag the rest of the way open and removed the chitinous plates that remained within. He set the jar on the concavity of the thorax and then placed it all in the fresh bag, covering it with pieces of gristle and smaller bits of plating. He set the head and limbs on top. Then he packed the doggie bags and rolled down the liner.
Croyd was on his feet by then. "Excuse me," he said. "I'll be right back."
"I'll come, too. I have to wash up a bit."
Above the running of the water Devil John suddenly remarked, "Now that everything's pretty much settled, I've got a favor to ask of you."
"What's that?" Croyd inquired, soaping his hands yet again.
"I still feel funny about the ones who hired me, you know?"
Croyd shrugged.
"You can't have it both ways," he said.
"Why not?"
"I don't follow you."
"I was on my way to deliver when you caught up with me. Supposing we went on to the rendezvous point-a little park up near the Cloisters-and I give them some bullshit about the dogs tearing the body apart and getting away with the whole thing. You make them believe it, and then have them forget that you were along. That way, I'm off the hook."
"Okay. Sure," Croyd agreed, splashing water on his face.
"But you say 'them.' How many people are you expecting?"
"Just one or two. The guy who hired me was named Matthias, and there was a red man with him. He's the one who tried getting me interested in these Masons till the other shut him up…"
"That's funny," Croyd said. "I met a Matthias this morning. He was a cop. Plainclothes. And what about the red guy? Sounds like maybe an ace or a joker."
"Probably is. But if he's got any special talent he wasn't showing it."
Croyd dried his face. '
"All of a sudden I'm a little uncomfortable," he said. "See, this cop Matthias is an ace. The name might just be a coincidence, and I was able to con him with my talent, but I don't like anything that smacks of too many aces. I might run into someone who's immune to what I've got. This group… It couldn't be a bunch of Mason aces, could it?"
"I don't know. The red fellow wanted me to come in to some kind of meeting, and I told him I wasn't a joiner and that we dealt right there or we forgot about it. So they coughed up my retainer on the spot. There was something about the way the red guy said things that gave me bad vibes."
Croyd frowned.
"Maybe we should just forget them."
"I've really got this thing about closing deals all proper so they don't come back to haunt me," Darlingfoot said.
"Couldn't you just sort of look it over while I talk to him, and then decide?"
"Well, okay… I said that I would. Do you remember anything else that got said? About Masons, aces, the body anything?"
"No… But what are pheromones?"
"Pheromones? They're like hormones that you smell. Airborne chemicals that can influence you. Tachyon was telling me about them one time. There was this joker I'd met. You sat too near him in a restaurant and anything you ate tasted like bananas. Anyway, it was pheromones, Tachy said. So what about them?"
"I don't know. The red guy was saying something about pheromones in connection with his wife when I came up. It didn't go any further."
"Nothing else?"
"Nothing else."
"Okay." Croyd wadded his paper towel and tossed it toward the wastebasket. "Let's go."
When they returned to the table Croyd counted out the money and passed it to his companion.
"Here. Can't say you didn't earn it."
Croyd regarded the strewn napkins, the slimy floor, and the moistness of the empty bag.
"What do you think we should do about the mess?"
Darlingfoot shrugged.
"The waiters will take care of it," he said. "They're used to it. Just make sure you leave a good tip."
Croyd hung back as they moved toward the park. Two figures were seated on a bench within, and even from the distance it was apparent that one man's face was bright red.
"Well?" Devil John asked.
"I'll give it a shot," Croyd said. "Pretend we're not together. I'll keep walking and you go on in and give them your spiel. I'll double back in a minute and cut through the park. I'll try to give them the business as soon as I get near. But you be ready. If it doesn't work this time we may have to resort to something more physical."
"Got you. Okay."
Croyd slowed his pace and Darlingfoot moved on ahead, crossing the street and entering upon a gravel walk leading to the bench. Croyd moved on to the corner, crossed slowly, and turned back.
He could hear their voices raised, as if in argument, when he drew nearer. He turned onto the trail and strolled toward the bench, his parcel at his side.
"… crock of shit!" he overheard Matthias say.
The man glanced in his direction, and Croyd realized that it was indeed the policeman he had encountered earlier. There was no sign of recognition on the man's face, but Croyd was certain that his talent must be telling him that an ace was approaching. So…
"Gentlemen," he said, focusing his thoughts, "everything that Devil John Darlingfoot has told you is correct. The body was destroyed by dogs. There is nothing for him to deliver. You will have to write this one off. You will forget me as soon as I have-"
He saw Darlingfoot turn his head suddenly, to glance past him. Croyd turned and looked in the same direction.
A young, plain-looking oriental woman was approaching, hands in the pockets of her coat, collar raised against the wind.
The wind shifted, blowing directly toward him now.