When I got up Tuesday night Escott had left the papers, undipped and open to the right sections, on the kitchen table.

They all had pictures-above the fold-of Bobbi and Grant dancing, smiling, and otherwise looking like they were having a terrific time with each other. The fruitier captions suggested that a new romance was brewing between Chicago's own radio celebrity Archy Grant and beautiful, talented club singer Bobbi Smythe. They even spelled her name right.

"Perhaps," said Escott, who stood in the hall doorway, "this fellow is operating under the belief that if one says an untruth often enough it will be believed, even by those who know better. From the evidence presented here I've assumed your evening out with Miss Smythe did not go as planned."

"You could say that. He bushwhacked us for a publicity stunt and Bobbi had to play along with it or look bad."

"How unfortunate."

"She's gonna kill him for this," I said, skimming a caption festooned with exclamation points and question marks.

"What about your own reaction?"

"I should have taken care of him last night."

"If I may ask, what were you planning to do?"

"Just a little mind changing. I wasn't going to punch him out; now I'm not so sure. On the other hand, Bobbi will probably beat me to it."

"Would you bring me up to date on this business? If she's going to assault the man, I'd like some background to enhance my appreciation of the event."

"The business will be all over after tonight."

"Then I should like to know what I've missed."

I brought him up to date.

He shook his head and tsked when I finished. "I must commend you for your singular show of restraint."

"Yeah, well, you won't be seeing much more of it. Publicity for his damned show is one thing, but this gossip about a romance is over the limit. Bobbi threw a conniption when he made his pitch to her; she's gonna boil right over for this."

"Which has likely already occurred since these editions have been out all day."

"Jeez, I better call her."

He went upstairs to give me privacy while I attacked the kitchen phone. I dialed the right number, but it just kept ringing unanswered. Bobbi must have been getting a lot of calls on this. Next time I dialed I let it ring once, then hung up and dialed again. It was a code we'd worked out long ago for those times when she wanted to be unavailable to the general populace.

"Hello? Jack?" She sounded both anxious and hopeful.

"Right here, angel. I just woke up and saw. You all right?"

She let out a long sigh. "Yes, I'm fine, but the phone's been going off since this morning. I never knew I had so many friends and that there were so many other people pretending to be my friends. There's also been reporters from every rag you can think of, a woman from Radioplay magazine came by the hotel trying to get an interview, and some cigarette company wants me to do an ad for them. I don't even smoke!"

"So? Just pose for the picture and pick up the check."

"I turned everyone over to my agent. This is driving me nuts. When I first saw the photos I laughed; now it's not so funny."

"I thought you wanted to be a star."

"I still do, but because I'm good at my job, not because they think I'm Archy Grant's girlfriend. That's what this is all about-him, not me."

"He's going to be taken care of tonight, I promise. You gonna be okay for the show?"

"That's the least of my problems. I can do that standing on my head."

"Wear some pants, then."

She made sputtering noises and dropped the receiver. I heard some strange, distant choking sounds, then something like a hen laying an especially large egg. A few clatters and clunks later she came back, breathless and with laughter still in her voice. "God, but I've missed you all day."

"You've got me for all night. I'll try and make up for it."

"Just hang Archy out to dry for me."

"First chance."

"I'm going to have to leave for the station in a few minutes. See you there in an hour?"

"Me and Charles both."

"Good, I can have one of you on each side to protect me from the curious public."

We said good-bye, and I went upstairs to get ready. It was to be the white tuxedo again tonight, but with a fresh shirt and tie. Bobbi and I had pretty much rumpled those the other night. I put on a pale, pearl gray topcoat and yelled toward Escott's room to ask if he was ready.

"I'm downstairs," he called from the hallway below. "And yes, I'm ready. I was just about to bring the car around."

"We can take mine."

"It's no trouble." I heard the kitchen door bang as he went out. By the time I was set, he'd brought the Nash up to the front door. I locked things, climbed in the passenger seat, and we were off.

"That's sharp," I said, nodding at his own topcoat. It was a rich dark wool and brand-new.

"Yes, I thought I would follow your example and augment my wardrobe as well for such an important occasion."

"Tuxedo, too?"

"Of course."

"I'm impressed." We passed a tavern with a red neon sign, and that reminded me of my visit to Moe's last night.

After leaving Bobbi in the very wee hours, I'd swung by McCallen's house to check for him, but he was still gone.

Before the dawn blotted everything out for me, I wrote another note to Escott and left it on the kitchen table. I mentioned Jim Waters and his guess that McCallen might be a communist. "Have you asked Miss Sommerfeld if she knows anything?"

"She's barely speaking to me. Our lack of progress is wearing thin with her, and we've come to the limit of the daily retainer she paid out, yet I feel honor-bound to present her with some sort of resolution."

"With McCallen making himself scarce it's kind of hard to wind the case up. We can go by his house after the party and see if he's decided to come home yet. If he has, then I'll finish things. It'll be good for the agency's reputation."

"I hope so. She's most unhappy with her hotel stay. Is Miss Smythe all right?"

I told him about Bobbi and her busy day fighting the phone and fame. "Archy gets his walking papers tonight, though."

"I'm delighted to hear it. What a uniquely sordid arrangement he must have with Ike LaCelle. Playing the procurer, indeed."

"Not anymore-at least with Bobbi. And Ike's no longer a problem. Him I was able to fix last night."

"Good. I remembered that I have a file on him in my office."

"Why does that not surprise me? What about Gil Dalhauser?"

"Oh, yes. I've quite a lot of information on him. We had a bit of a run-in about two years ago when I was working on a case that caused our paths to cross. To resolve my client's problem it was necessary to pass some bookkeeping information I uncovered on Mr. Dalhauser to the Internal Revenue people. He managed to avoid going to jail, but eventually had to pay them a whacking great fine. They've had their eye on him ever since."

"If he sees you at the party, is there going to be gunfire?" My question was only ninety percent joke. The other ten percent was entirely serious, inspired by past experience with my partner.

Escott tutted, something only the English can do right. "I hardly think so. There were no reprisals back then; I doubt any will be forthcoming after all this time. He might not even recognize me."

Parking in the heart of the city was a problem, as always. Escott found a place a block away, but the hike to the Wrigley Building was no real hardship. It was cool, but dry for once, taking the bite out of the wind whipping around the buildings. We arrived in plenty of time, and joined up with other polished-looking people riding the elevator to the studio's floor.

Unlike the restaurant there was no hitch about getting in; the tickets Bobbi reserved were ready and waiting, then we went in to find our seats.

She'd outdone herself and put us right in the middle of the front row. I looked around trying to spot anyone I knew and waved at a few faces from the nightclub. Gordy was not among them, but I figured his attention tonight would be on Adelle Taylor's performance in the review. You do not progress in a romance by ignoring the lady's interests.

Escott looked the place over as well. He had plenty of stage experience, but none in radio that I knew of, and seemed engrossed in what he saw. I got to play native guide for once and pointed out the sound booth and a few other things.

"What's that table over there that looks like a jumble sale?" he asked.

For English jumble, I translated American rummage. "Sound effects."

Escott had it pegged as looking strange. Set up within easy reach of the soundman was a frame about a foot square with a miniature door set in it, but with a full-sized knob and latch. Nothing makes a noise quite like a shutting door as a door itself, I explained. A flat pan filled with cornstarch was a good imitation of footsteps in snow, and a pair each of men's and women's shoes stood ready on a square of wood to provide other footstep sounds. The rest of the inventory was just as oddball, including a small gun, a jug full of water and a big pail, a box of metal junk, another of broken glass, two unbroken glasses, a taxi horn, a large sheet of tin that could be the cracking thunder of a storm, and a typewriter. And those were just the larger objects, not counting bells, horns, whistles, and other debris necessary for building the illusions the script called for.

A sizable part of the room was devoted to the orchestra, otherwise known as the Variety Hour Band. They were making a chaotic din tuning up their instruments. All wore the same dark red coats with the letters VHB stitched over the breast pockets. Bobbi's accompanist, Marza Chevreaux, was at the piano, studying her sheet music. She was an angular woman with hair that was too black, and wore clothes too young for her forty years. The only time she smiled was when she was playing piano and when she dealt with Bobbi, of whom she was fiercely protective. Marza didn't like me much, and if she noticed me in the audience, she never let on.

Very unexpectedly Bobbi emerged from someplace backstage and all but skipped right toward us. No red dress with gold sequins as planned. Now she was wrapped snug in a deep blue clingy thing with a modest spray of rhinestones dotting her shoulders. She was happy and smiling, full of the kind of vibrant glow she always got while working.

Escott and I made haste to stand.

She planted a no-nonsense kiss on my lips that everyone saw, perhaps to let all and sundry know the papers had gotten it wrong about her and Grant. I didn't mind. She finally let me go and turned her blinding smile on Escott.

"Charles, I'm so glad you could come, how handsome you look."

She always seemed to affect Escott's ability to speak, but he looked pleased. His tuxedo was a conservative black style, no adventurous white coat for him, but it fit perfectly. He took her hand and made a little half bow to kiss it. I'd seen LaCelle and Grant do the same thing, but Americans just can't seem to get it right. Escott's version was all homage to and admiration for the lady, not some half-assed attempt to impress her for the man's own ends.

"And you are stunning as ever, Miss Smythe," he returned. "I'm quite looking forward to your performance."

"What's with the new dress?" I asked. I was worried that in spite of my best efforts I might have damaged the red one somehow.

"I had to get another for the show. All that stuff in the papers spoiled its debut."

I sort of understood that one.

"Besides," she continued,

"after seeing the photos, I realized how overdressed I'd be. This one's much more appropriate."

We both told her she looked great.

"How're things backstage with you-know?" I asked.

"Just fine. He's all busy getting ready, no time for me. It's quite a relief."

"Still want to drop him in a vat of acid?"

"Not drop," she corrected. "I want to lower him in an inch at a time."

Escott's right eyebrow bounced.

"My, we certainly are medieval tonight, but with justified provocation, I understand."

She beamed at him. She loved to hear him talk. "It's so good to see you again. You must come to the club before the review's run is over and tell me what you think."

"I shall endeavor to do so."

"And now I've got to get back before the director has a fit. See you in an hour." She directed this at both of us, squeezed my hand, and whisked away, leaving behind the rose scent of her perfume.

"Wow," I said, staring after her in awe.

Escott threw me an amused glance. "Indeed. Though his techniques are less than gentlemanly, one can understand your adversary's motivations."

"After tonight he's going to be just a bad memory."

The lights flickered, the orchestra's tuning efforts subsided, and the leader got them started on some bright dance music. It was a full ten minutes before broadcast time, but the crew that made everything work for the performers was still bustling around doing mysterious things with the equipment. The audience sorted and settled themselves, and usherettes in snappy red coats with lots of brass buttons saw to it that the last people found their seats. It was a full house. Grant's show was very popular.

Five minutes before things started, Archy Grant emerged, grinning and waving. A big cheer went up in response, louder than anything I'd heard for him yet, but this was an expected event, not something impromptu. He introduced himself and asked for the audience's help with the show, drawing their attention to some boxes hanging over the stage that read applaud and laugh.

"I know you won't need any help from our director to know when to laugh," he said. "But he needs your help to make sure the show runs within its time limit. So when you see a sign lighting up, that's when you do what it says.

When it goes out, that's him asking you to hold it down so we can get out the next line in the script. And trust me, you're all gonna love being in showbiz."

His delivery was exactly right so the laughs he got came easy. Escott and I were more reserved, Escott because that's how he was, and me because I still wanted to punch Grant in the nose.

Someone handed Grant a script, and he quickly introduced a number of people who came filing onstage holding scripts, including Bobbi. She got a little extra cheer of her own, accepting it graciously, though this recognition was more a result of the publicity in the papers than anything else.

Silent signals got tossed back and forth between the director and the players. The second hand on a huge clock swept up to twelve, and the band started in on the show's theme song the way it did every week. I used to enjoy hearing it and hoped I'd be able to again. Sometimes it's a bad idea to meet the person behind the celebrity.

Everything went smooth; the work they'd put into all the rehearsals paid off. You can mess up a line even reading from a script, but all the performers were in top form tonight, especially Bobbi. Though Grant was the main focus of the show, she easily outshone him, at least in the studio. Whether the spark of her personality was going out over the air or not, we wouldn't know until tomorrow's reviews. Then Escott, who was highly critical of performers who were less than the best, surprised me by leaning over while Bobbi was in the middle of a song.

"She really is wonderful, isn't she?" he murmured, his usually poker-faced expression softened and relaxed. Bobbi could do that to people.

"Amen to that, brother."

Bobbi finished to rolling applause, then the show paused for a coal commercial, and I thought of Gil Dalhauser and his trucking business. His trucks were the ones that hauled the sponsor's product all over the county. I started to look around for him, then changed my mind. If he'd been in the audience Escott would have said something. He'd trained himself to have an excellent memory for faces.

"Not too shabby," I said. "Better than you expected, huh?"

"Well, it is much more interesting to me to see how it's done rather than merely listen to the results at home. Also, it's easier to ignore the advertisements while in the studio."

Escott often got annoyed at the constant ads that paid for the shows and made a point of turning them down when he could. Unless he was especially interested in a program he often forgot to turn the volume back up again.

"There's something about Archy Grant that bothers me," he said.

"There's plenty about him that bothers me. What's your beef?"

His lips tightened and he shook his head. "He seems very familiar in an odd way. He reminds me of someone, but I can't think who."

"Probably of himself. You've heard me listen to him a lot."

"That's not quite it or I'd have remarked on it before. The radio changes a person's voice as it filters through a speaker. But in person..."

The station break ended and the players stepped up to the microphones again to do a comedy sketch with Grant about a man trying to teach his dog how to drive. The sound-effects guy had his hands full, especially at the end, with the inevitable car crash and sirens.

"I know I've heard that voice before," said Escott, staring down at the brightly lit stage where Grant stood close by the microphone. "Now, I wonder who the deuce he could have been?"

He followed Grant's every move, concentrating on each line, laugh, and song, which is the wrong way to go about remembering something. The harder you try, the more elusive the memory becomes. He should have eased back so it could sneak up on him.

I left him to it and let myself enjoy what was left of the hour. It seemed to go by amazingly fast. Bobbi had often described the experience to me, saying it was a very intense kind of living. Sometimes she could remember everything in astonishing detail, and other times she went blank, depending on how much fun she was having. Then she'd have to ask me later how things had looked. Just in case, I took a lot of mental notes for her on this one.

The show ended, the applaud sign flared and faded, the lights went up for the audience, and that was the end of it.

Escott said he'd go get the Nash and spare Miss Smythe the walk.

I waited for Bobbi, but not for too long. She was in a hurry to get to the Nightcrawler to catch Adelle's last performance of the review. I didn't want to miss it either, being curious to see how such a refined and graceful-looking woman would handle prancing about in a Chinese dragon head.

"Wasn't I terrific?" Bobbi demanded when she rushed up to me in the studio lobby. This would be one of those times when she'd recall everything. When that happened, she always knew the quality of her work.

"They'll have to make up new words for how good you were," I said, taking her arm, or trying to; she was so full of energy she couldn't hold herself still and had to dance around me a few times talking a blue streak about the fun she'd just had. In a way I envied her absolute joy and was a little saddened by the knowledge that it was something I couldn't give her. She'd made it for herself, using her own talent. The closest I'd been to what she had now was years back when I sold my first news piece to a paper, but that seemed small in comparison to her reaction.

People looked and smiled at her, whispering excitedly. A few came up and asked her to autograph their program books. This surprised and pleased her enormously.

"It was so scary, too," she said to me while scribbling her name with a borrowed pen. "Anything could have gone wrong. I mean, when it happens at the club, then only a couple hundred know the mistake, but on a national broadcast it could be thousands and thousands."

"Well, now they all know how great you are."

"Oh, I hope so, I really, really hope so!" she said, looking so alive and beautiful that I felt something crack inside me. It was almost physical, the pain, and I was pretty sure it was my heart breaking.

If this guest spot did result in bigger, more important bookings for her, I might not see her so much, if at all. The big jobs were in New York and Hollywood. She could be gone for weeks, months at a time, traveling, working.

The press of people around her forced me to step back, and I wondered just how far I might have to keep stepping.

Looking on from the edge of a crowd could be my new future with her, and I didn't think much of it. It gave me a tight feeling all over, like I was strangling, and I had to resist the urge to push through them all, to go to her and sweep her away before I lost her.

But that would have spoiled her moment.

This was Bobbi's time to shine, not mine to drop a cold bucketful of my own self-doubt onto her dreams.

I pinned a smile to my face and waited for the crowd's flood of adulation to subside. If I wanted to keep her, I'd have to steer clear of anything remotely resembling a leash and trust she would come to me when she was able to do so.

Not an easy thing to do, especially when all of me wanted to rush in for her.

For myself.

"Hey," she said, suddenly free of the autograph seekers and slipping her arm around mine. "Wake up, Handsome Hank. I thought you were going to protect me from the curious public."

"Anytime, anyplace," I told her lightly.

She leaned on me with a satisfied sigh as we walked toward the elevator. "Thanks for waiting."

"No problem."

Not the easiest thing I'd ever done... but certainly the smartest.

Escott would have played chauffeur right to the end by dropping Bobbi and me at the club then running off to find parking, but she persuaded him to turn his beloved Nash over to one of the valets.

"I'm not going to lose the chance to make a big entrance with two such good-looking men," she said.

I wouldn't have called Escott good-looking, but he was certainly distinctive with his height, lean face, and beaky nose, and, of course, a tuxedo always improves any man's appearance. He assented to her wish and gave up his keys.

We three walked in, with her in the middle, to be greeted in the outer lobby by those invited to the party who had been to or heard the broadcast. Once more I had to step back and give Bobbi to the crowd. Still not easy, but I knew she'd return, and that helped.

We'd arrived just in time for the review's intermission and threaded our way through the mob to get to Gordy's reserved table down front. He was there to greet us, and even his normally impassive face had a hint of a smile lurking under the surface. He shook hands with Escott, thumping him once on the arm in a friendly way. It was hard to believe that at one point they'd been on opposite sides of a gun, ready to kill.

"Good to see you. Sit. Have champagne," he ordered, so Escott sat and let a waiter pour him a glass.

"How'd the show go?" asked Bobbi.

Gordy nodded toward the darkened dance floor. The stage manager had sent someone out to sweep it clean, and he marched back and forth with a dusting mop a yard wide. "Pretty good. They liked her fine."

"Did you hear any of my stuff at all?"

"I had a radio in the lobby bar and listened there. Checked on the review during the coal ads. You were good, kid."

She heaved a big happy sigh. "Thanks for letting me do it."

"Be a crime not to." He turned to me. "That guy Waters came in. I took care of him like you asked. Red carpet all the way. People are thinking he's some kind of bigwig."

In addition to a paid-up cab I'd fixed it so Jim Waters could have whatever he wanted at the club and I'd cover it; he was my special guest. Escott warned me such an arrangement could be severely abused, but Waters struck me as being a gentleman and would behave accordingly. Besides, if I was wrong about him, then this would be a fast way to find out. "You're a brick, Gordy."

"I been called worse."

"Where is he?"

"He spotted some guys in the band he knew and went back to say hello. He looks like he's enjoying himself."

"Been keeping him company?"

"No time for it, but the girls have been checking on him regular, sitting at the table when they can, making sure he's happy. I think two or three of them are in love already."

"Great... I think."

"Is he as good a singer as you say?"

"You'll find out when I take away all your business."

"Not unless I hire him first."

The Melodians, finished with their break, came back to warm up the new crowd. Jim Waters returned from his backstage travels and I introduced him around the table. Bobbi didn't have to turn her charm on for him, he looked bowled over just from sitting next to her. Our group emptied two bottles of champagne out fairly quickly and Gordy had more brought in, along with a tray stacked with finger sandwiches, caviar, and crackers. Escott dubiously eyed the latter, perhaps, as I was, thinking of our impatient client.

A thought suddenly started running in my head about writing a mystery story; all I had was a title- The Case of the Impatient Heiress-but no plot. It stuck me as being a good title; maybe I could do something with it. I borrowed a pen from someone and scribbled on a napkin so as not to forget, then tucked it away in a pocket. Maybe I'd have better luck with a regular mystery magazine than trying to write about man-eating spider gods for Spicy Terror Tales.

A waiter, noticing I was without, put a glass of champagne in front of me. I got a smirk from Bobbi and she whispered that she'd swap glasses with me when she'd finished hers off.

I'd been right about Escott and Gordy talking shop-either that, or each was trying to get information out of the other. News of anything going on in the city was like gold to them. Bobbi filled me in on backstage shenanigans at the broadcast, omitting Archy Grant's name from the stories until I asked about him.

She gave a little shrug. "He was friendly enough, but pretty involved with doing the show. When anyone mentioned the paper photos, he'd just say that we had a dance or two and that was it."

"Quite a difference from last night. I think my warning to him via Ike finally got through."

"Good, but I won't be completely comfortable about things until you've talked to him."

The orchestra changed its tune and tempo to the overture piece, and the lights went down over the dance floor.

When the couples had cleared back to their tables, drunken Bill began making his rounds, asking people if they'd seen his lost love.

"Who's the guy that punches him?" I asked Bobbi as Bill went flying.

"It's a different man every night. The bouncers take turns-at least the ones we can trust to swing and not hit.

During rehearsal one of the guys actually connected, so we had to let him go."

"Not permanently?"

"Nah, but he's never going to work in a musical in this town again."

The review proceeded without a hitch, and I had to admit that Adelle surprised me. She'd been so contained and elegant whenever I'd seen her and now capered like a veteran slapstick artist. To be fair, she had worked with Ted Healy on Broadway and some Mack Sennett comedies in Hollywood, so it'd be odd if she hadn't learned a few things about physical humor.

Lil and Bill made their triumphant exit in the rickshaw, then Adelle eventually returned for her solo, and again for the tea cup number. Bobbi watched everything intently.

I leaned close to her ear. "Don't worry, she's not going to take your place."

"It's not that. I'm studying what she does different from me and trying to figure out why. It might make me better at what I do when I go back."

"But you're already great."

"She's got a lot more experience than me. I learned a truckload just doing the rehearsals with her. You can never know too much about your craft. It's important to study how others work at it."

I started to say something, then snapped shut. She was so bull's-eye right, and it wasn't just for singing and dancing. If I applied that to writing then maybe I could get off my duff and sell a piece.

"What?" she asked, looking at me.

"Nothing. I just need to read more, is all."

Adelle's last curtain call brought her a few dozen long-stemmed red roses. She spotted Gordy at the table, waved hard, and blew a kiss at him. He applauded loud and long, slapping his big hands together with bruising force.

Definitely a man in love.

Bobbi said she wanted to go backstage to congratulate Adelle. I started to rise to go with her, but she patted my shoulder and told me: "Uh-uh, girl talk."

No arguing with that. I sank into the chair and watched her walking away. The blue dress did wonderful things the way it slid around her hips.

"She's really something and no mistake."

I turned to the speaker, Jim Waters, and wholeheartedly agreed with him.

"Ever have days when you wonder what you did to deserve her?" he asked.

"Everytime I wake up," I said. "The club look after you all right? I'm sorry I couldn't have been here sooner."

"I'm having a great time. It's nice to be attending a party instead of playing at one, like I sometimes do. They carry my brand of beer, and the girls are friendly and cute. Not much else a man could ask for. That big guy who runs the place, I've seen his name in the papers connected with some shady stuff, but he's been a real gent."

"Glad to hear it. You got any problem with the shady stuff?"

"Huh. In this town you might as well have a problem with the railroads or the Stockyards. It's part and parcel of the life, so you might as well get used to it. What was that paper you were scribbling on? You had one hell of a look on your face just then."

"Paper? Oh, I got an idea for a title and didn't want to forget it."

"Title for what?"

"A story. I used to be a reporter, now I'm trying my hand at fiction."

"And opening a club, to boot. Lotta irons for your fire, kid. You finish anything in this writing of yours? The hardest part I used to have with my music was to sit down and finish something."

I fought against wincing. "A couple things. I've been kind of stuck for ideas lately."

Waters shook his head, laughing. "Sounds like you're in a block."

"Uh..." How the hell did he know? "Well, I've been busy..."

"Don't worry about it. When you want to write bad enough, you will. Just don't fool yourself into thinking it's all dreamy-eyed inspiration."

"It isn't?"

He snorted. "I write music myself, and if I had to wait around for inspiration to strike I'd never get any work done."

"But isn't inspiration necessary?"

"Sometimes, but for the rest it's a nuisance. I can't sit and wait for the lightning to strike. If I get in a block, I shuck that one-percent-inspiration and start the ninety-nine-percent-perspiration part."

I was familiar with what Thomas Edison had said on the subject, and less than eager to want to believe it. "But don't you have to be in the mood to create and to be able to create anything that's good?"

"It helps, but never wait for it to come to you. Some days you just have to get the stuff out whether you feel like it or not, no excuses. Maybe what you produce stinks, but it's still good practice, and you can always make it better when you're done."

"I'd like it to be better to start with."

He chuckled, but with a serious, earnest look in his eye. "That only comes from constant practice. How good a musician do you think I'd be if I didn't play every day?"

"Not so good."

"You see my point?"

"Write every day? Sounds too much like real work." And I'd done plenty of that in the newspaper business.

"Exactly. But if you want something badly enough, what work you put in to achieve it is nothing to you. Whether you sell that work is less important than the fact that you finished it to please yourself."

"Though selling is good."

"Oh, I pretty much favor it. But never, ever wait for something as slippery as the mood to strike. That's either laziness or a lack of confidence in yourself. I had a friend who once told me with a lot of smug certainty he planned to have his first symphony finished within five years. That was fifteen years ago. He should have decided to finish his symphony the same day he thought about starting it, then he might have had something for himself. The only thing he got known for was making excuses to himself and everyone else. If Mozart had had that attitude we'd have never heard of him. He died at thirty-five, you know."

I could feel my face growing longer. I'd died at thirty-six. Prior to that all I'd achieved was to snag a few bylines when the editors were feeling generous. And after that... well, here I was at a party with a guy who was essentially kicking me in the pants. I let him, because he was right about all of it. "Your beer's gone," I said. "Lemme get you another so you can tell me more."

We put our heads together at the table, and I threw more questions at him and soaked in answers. Writing with sounds and writing with words were more alike than I'd ever suspected. Neither of us came up for air until Bobbi actually tapped me on the shoulder. Waters stood, balancing easily with his cane and told her how much he enjoyed her radio work. He'd listened to the Variety Hour in the lobby bar.

"But they need to get a better horn player for their band," he added. "He kept cracking the same note over and over."

"And here I was hoping no one would notice," she said. "Would you mind if I steal Jack away for a moment?"

He was agreeable to that, so she stole me away to another table in a corner. She looked like she had things to say.

"What's up, angel?"

"I just got a little friendly advice from Adelle."

"This 'girl talk' stuff?"

"Yes, and then some. I had a feeling that after she saw the papers she'd want to speak with me. It's a good thing Gordy's making a solid case with her or she might have clawed my eyes out over Archy. She saw the papers and assumed the worst, but it's really all right."

"How's that? Because Gordy's softened the blow?"

"Exactly. She doesn't mind Archy having a new interest now that she's got one herself."

"I thought when you went shopping you told her you weren't after Archy."

"This is a case of Archy coming after me. She thinks I'm going along with it to further my career, so she gave me a little heart-to-heart."

"Kind of her."

"Practical, you mean. She's read the writing on the wall all right-and the diamonds in the bracelet. It's a nice piece, so she didn't do too badly, and she's still a regular on the Variety Hour."

"What'd she tell you?"

"Not to get between Archy and his audience, and when it's my turn to get the brush, go with a smile, but go. She said that was the lesson she learned with him. If the guy's not interested in you, you can't change his mind, though she tried. She kept hoping he'd come around back to her, but it's not going to happen."

"His loss, Gordy's gain."

"I thought hearing this would make you smile."

"Oh, yeah. I'm imagining the look on Archy's face when he realizes he doesn't have either of you."

She shrugged. "The sad fact is that there'll always be another girl out there for him."

"I could fix that, too."

"But not forever. Don't tell me you want to keep seeing him and Ike all the time."

I quickly admitted that I did not.

"Huh," she said, looking past me. "Speak of the devil."

Far across the room Archy Grant made a big and noisy entrance. The grin, the wave, lots of glad-handing and calling to friends. In his wake was Ike LaCelle doing much the same thing, and not far behind him stalked the more sober and undemonstrative Gil Dalhauser.

"Well," I murmured, "it's show time. I better catch him before he has any drinks." I stood, but Bobbi put her hand on my arm.

"You'll need some privacy, won't you?"

"That would be a help." And plenty of light, too.

"You won't get it here for a while, people will interrupt. Let me go to him, tell him to meet me in my dressing room in five minutes. I'll make sure he'll be there with bells on whether Ike warned him off or not."

"Angel, you're a devil."

"Just knock first to make sure Adelle's out."

Bobbi wasn't striving for extra attention when she walked over to join Grant, but she got it all the same. Her looks on top of the publicity linking them in a possible romance guaranteed that anyone interested was watching. Her face lit with a sweet unaffected smile, she put her hand out to him; he took it and drew her suddenly in close, but only pecked her on the cheek like a fond brother before putting a friendly arm around her. He was playing it careful, not too little or too much for the crowd.

"Ladies and gentlemen! My beautiful guest on the show tonight!" he called out, then stood back and applauded.

Bobbi took a bow, then turned to applaud at Grant herself. The mutual admiration display might go on for longer than five minutes; I took the opportunity to get an early start toward the backstage area. With everyone looking at them, no one noticed my quiet exit through the service door to the kitchen, and the staff there was too busy to bother with me. They were used to my mug anyway.

The back hall where the dressing rooms were was nearly cleared out. Just a couple chorus girls remained, and they were too involved talking to see me walk past. I gave Bobbi's door a snappy knock, but happily heard no reply. It was unlocked; I went in and turned on the light.

Flowers. Lots of fresh new flowers had been brought in, roses, big bronze chrysanthemums, humble bluebells, daisies, and I don't know what others turned the place into a crowded and fragrant greenhouse. They were different from the ones Bobbi had had, so I could assume these were all Gordy's doing. Adelle was going to have a tough job getting this load home-unless Gordy volunteered to help.

I made myself comfortable in a chair by the closet. It wasn't visible from the door, though I could see the whole room fine in the dressing-table mirror. Grant would not, of course, be able to see me.

My wait went on for longer than five minutes. Bobbi must not have been able to get Grant apart from the others long enough to deliver even a whispered invitation. He was probably milking the crowd for every drop of adulation he could get.

After about a quarter hour, though, I heard footsteps approach and pause outside, then the door was pushed open.

It was welcome-to-my-parlor time.

Only the fly wasn't Grant, but Ike LaCelle. With no small disgust for the false alarm, I vanished just as he started to walk in. It made hearing more difficult, but I could follow the progress of his footfalls on the floor. He circled the room once, opened the closet, then checked on the tiny bath. Unhurried, he crossed back to the door.

"It's clear," he said.

Someone else came in.

"This is not a good idea," LaCelle continued.

"The lady wants to see me, who am I to say no?" said Archy Grant. He seemed to be in a remarkably good mood, even for a man whose business it was to be happy all the time.

"She's poison for you, Arch. Lemme fix you up with someone else."

"Tomorrow, maybe. First I find out what I'm getting tonight." Glass clinked on glass and I thought I recognized the sound of a bottle being set down.

"That boyfriend of hers is dangerous. I tell you there's something wrong with him."

"Gordy's just got you spooked."

"Fleming's the one who's done the spooking. You didn't have him looking at you like that, like the world was gonna end."

"Ike, you are not scared of some nobody kid like him."

"Damn right I'm scared. I know a creep when I see one."

"I've seen him and he's nothing."

"I just can't talk to you when you're like this."

"So we'll talk later-when I'm a lot more relaxed..." Grant trailed off into a long chuckle, sounding very pleased with himself. "Now get out before she comes. I don't want you spoiling the mood while she's in it."

"You said she wasn't so hot for you last night."

"She just changed her mind, same as the rest. All she needed was a taste of what it was like doing the show."

"Just like that? I don't think so. That broad's got more brains than you think. This is a setup, pal. Her creep boyfriend's gonna come busting in on you both and either he flattens you or they shake you down for dough."

"Then I'll lock the door."

"Archy-"

"I can take care of myself, Ike. And if the kid makes trouble we handle him like the others. Jeez, isn't it enough I let you come check things here first? Stand guard in the hall if you want, but get scarce."

Ike went out, grumbling.

"And don't let her see you," Grant said in farewell as he shut the door.

He walked back and stopped before the mirror. When I silently returned to solidity a few feet behind him he was inspecting his teeth and smoothing his hair back. He was a really good-looking man, maybe a little thick around the neck and shoulders, but with striking brown eyes, and an ingrained expression of pleasant humor. He looked like he knew the number on everything and would share it with you for a beer and a handshake. I'd been right about the bottle; he'd brought champagne and two glasses.

I stood very still, watching him for some time before he started to feel it. Not that I have one of those airs of evil surrounding me; this was the sort of feeling anyone gets when they sense somebody's staring at them.

Grant straightened slow, and used the mirror to check the room, then turned slightly to look toward the door.

That's when he glimpsed what just shouldn't have been there out of the corner of his eye. He twisted fast to face me, drawing in one sharp breath, eyes going wide, and backed hard away, bumping against the table. Things rattled and fell over. The image of the room in the mirror shivered.

His heart was banging fit to burst. I could hear its thudding ten feet away. I'm not like the undead in the storybooks and movies; I don't take pleasure in terrifying people-not usually. But for Archy Grant I found myself making a big exception. His pop-eyed expression of horror was giving me the kind of laugh he'd probably never before inspired in anyone. I couldn't help myself. It was probably just as well, too. Better this laughter than for me to be angry with him.

"Hi, Archy. Great to see you. I really enjoyed the broadcast."

"Wha... you..." His skill for ad-libbing had deserted him.

I fixed my gaze on him, smiling. "We're gonna have a little talk."