"You got a lot of green to throw around?"
"Enough."
"Okay, I'll get you into the game," Melt said. "I'd like to take some of it away from you."
Croyd smiled, paid his check, and followed Melt into the back room, where the casket gaming table was closed and had a nonreflective surface. There were seven of them in the game to begin with, and three went broke before midnight. Croyd and Melt and Bug Pimp and Runner saw piles of cash grow and shrink before them till three in the A.M. Then Runner yawned, stretched, and turned out a small bottle of pills from an inside pocket.
"Anybody need something to keep awake?" he asked. "I'll stick with coffee," Melt said.
"Gimme," said Bug Pimp.
"Never touch the stuff," said Croyd.
A half hour later Bug Pimp folded and made noises about checking on the line of joker femmes he hustled to straights wanting jittery jollies. By four o'clock the Runner was broke and had to walk. Croyd and Melt stared at each other.
"We're both ahead," said Melt. "True."
"Should we take the money and run?" Croyd smiled.
"I feel the same way," Melt said. "Deal.,"
As sunrise tickled the stained glass window and the dusty mechanical bats followed the hologram ghosts to their rest, Melt massaged his temples, rubbed his eyes, and said, "Will you take my marker?"
"Nope," Croyd replied.
"You shouldn't have let me play that last hand then."
"You didn't tell me you were that broke. I thought you could write a check."
"Well, shit. I ain't got it. What do you want to do?"
"Take something else, I guess."
"Like what?"
"A name."
"Whose name?" Melt asked, reaching inside his jacket and scratching his chest.
"The person who gives you your orders."
"What orders?"
"The ones you pass on to guys like Demise."
"You're kidding. It'd be my ass to name a name like that."
"It'll be your ass if you don't," Croyd said.
Melt's hand came out from behind his coat holding a. 32 automatic, which he leveled at Croyd's chest. "I'm not scared of two-bit muscle. There's dumdum slugs in here. Know what they do?"
Suddenly Melt's hand was empty and blood began to ooze from around the nail of his trigger finger. Croyd slowly twisted the automatic out of shape before he tore out the clip and ejected a round.
"You're right, they're dumdums," he acknowleged. "Look at the little flat-nosed buggers, will you? By the way, my name's not Whiteout. I'm Croyd Crenson, the Sleeper, and nobody welshes on me. Maybe you've heard I'm a little bit nuts. You give me the name and you don't find out how true that is."
Melt licked his lips. The lumps beneath his glistening skin increased the tempo of their passage.
"I'm dead if they ever hear."
Croyd shrugged. "I won't tell them if you won't." He pushed a stack of bills toward Melt. "Here's your cut for getting me into the game. Give me the name, take it and walk, or I'll leave you in three of these boxes." Croyd kicked the coffin.
"Danny Mao," Melt whispered, "at the Twisted Dragon, over near Chinatown."
"He gives you a hit list, pays you?"
"Right."
"Who pulls his strings?"
"Beats the shit out of me. He's all I know."
"When's he at the Twisted Dragon?"
"I think he hangs out there a lot, because other people in the place seem to know him. I'd get a call, I'd go over. I'd check my coat. We'd have dinner, or a few drinks. Business didn't get mentioned. But when I'd leave, there'd be a piece of paper in my pocket with a name or two or three on it, and an envelope with money in it. Same as with Eye. That's how he worked it."
"The first time?"
"The first time we took a long walk and he explained the setup. After that, it was like I just said."
"That's it?"
"That's all."
"Okay, you're off the hook."
Melt picked up his stack of bills and stuffed it into his pocket. He opened his distorted mouth as if to say something, thought better of it, thought again, said, "Let's not leave together."
"Fine with me. G'bye."
Melt moved toward the side door, flanked by a pair of tombstones. Croyd picked up his winnings and began thinking about breakfast.
Croyd rode the elevator to Aces High, regretting the absence of a power of flight on such a perfect spring evening. Arriving, he stepped into the lounge, paused, and glanced about.
Six tables held twelve couples, and a dark-haired lady in a low-cut silver blouse sat alone at a two-person table near the bar, twirling a swizzle in some exotic drink. Three men and a woman were seated at the bar. Soft modern jazz sounds circulated through the cool air, accompaniment to blender and laughter, to the clicks and splashes of ice, liquid, and glass. Croyd moved forward.
"Is Hiram here?" he asked the bartender. The man looked at him, then shook his head. "Are you expecting him this evening?"
A shrug. "Hasn't been around much lately."
"What about Jane Dow?"
The man studied him. Then, "She's taken off too," he stated.
"So you really don't know if either of them'll be in?"
"Nope."
Croyd nodded. "I'm Croyd Crenson and I plan to eat here tonight. If Jane comes in, I'd like to know."
"Your best bet's to leave a note at the reservation desk before you're seated."
"Got something I can write on?" Croyd asked.
The bartender reached beneath the bar, brought up a pad and a pencil and passed them to him. Croyd scribbled a message.
As he set the pad down, his hand was covered by a more delicate one, of darker complexion, with bright red nails. His gaze moved along it to the shoulder, skipped to the silver decolletage, paused a beat, rose. It was the solitary lady with the exotic drink. On closer inspection there was something familiar…
"Croyd?" she said softly. "You get stood up too?"
As he met her dark-eyed gaze a name drifted up from the past.
"Veronica," he said.
"Right. You've a good memory for a psycho," she observed, smiling.
"Tonight's my night off. I'm real straight."
"You look mature and distinguished with the white sideburns."
"Damn, I missed some," he said. "And you're really missing a custom- Er, a date?"
"Uh-huh. Seems like we've both thought about getting together too."
"True. You have dinner yet?"
She gave her hair a toss and smiled. "No, and I was looking forward to something special."
He took her arm. "I'll get us a table," he said, "and I've already got a great special in mind."
Croyd crumpled the note and left it in the ashtray.
The trouble with women, Croyd reflected, was that no matter how good they might be in bed, eventually they wanted to use that piece of furniture for sleeping-a condition he was generally unable and unwilling to share. Consequently, when Veronica had finally succumbed to the sleep of exhaustion, Croyd had risen and begun pacing his Morningside Heights apartment, to which they had finally repaired sometime after midnight.
He poured the contents of a can of beef and vegetable soup into a pan and set it on the stove. He prepared a pot of coffee. While he waited for them to simmer and percolate, he phoned those of his other apartments with telephone answering machines and used a remote activator to play back their message tapes. Nothing new.
Finishing his soup, he checked whether Veronica was still asleep, then removed the key from its hiding place and opened the reinforced door to the small room without windows. He turned on its single light, locked himself in, and went to sit beside the glass statue reclining upon the day bed. He held Melanie's hand and began talking to her-slowly at first; but after a time the words came tumbling out. He told her of Dr. Finn and his sleep machine and talked about the Mafia and Demise and Eye and Danny Mao-whom he hadn't been able to run down yet-and about how great things used to be. He talked until he grew hoarse, and then he went out and locked the door and hid the key again.