If it's the same woman.

How could it be? That was seventeen years ago. Nobody would call her a young woman now, the way they were all talking about Yolanda White.

Lots of people ride motorcycles. Lots of women, for that matter.

That other woman, though, she knew Mr. Christmas or Bag Man or Puck or whatever his name is. Which means she's probably just like him. A fairy. An immortal. In which case she could look as young as ever, even after seventeen years. Could be the same woman. Might not be, but could be.

Which is why Ceese got up from the supper table, rinsed his dishes, put them in the dishwasher, added the soap, started it up, then strapped on his gun and headed out the door to walk up the street.

It occurred to him that this might be more convincing if he arrived in a patrol car.

Then it occurred to him that if this was an ordinary woman who just moved into a neighborhood that didn't appreciate her, there really wasn't much point to the visit. And if this Yolanda was actually a fairy like Puck, he was in serious danger of getting turned upside down or inside out or something without her lifting a finger.

Maybe she wasn't as powerful as he feared.

Still, he couldn't help but wish that this confrontation was happening in Fairyland, where he was very, very large, and fairies were very, very little.

Ceese walked up the hill, remembering seventeen years before when he walked up this same street with Raymo, carrying a skateboard under his arm and fake weed in his pocket. He had seen enough weed since then to know that they'd been scammed. Finding the baby probably saved him from smoking something poisonous or at least sickening. And it occurred to him right then: Did Raymo know it was fake? Was he setting Ceese up to be humiliated? Look what I got Ceese to smoke!

Well, it didn't work. Ceese was a cop now. And Raymo was... somewhere. Doing something.

His family moved out before he got out of high school. Moved north somewhere. Central Valley.

Raymo was probably the biggest hood in a small town. Well, that was all right. In LA, Raymo would have had plenty of really evil guys to imitate; in a more innocent town, he'd be limited by the evil he was able to think up for himself.

Trouble was, Raymo was kind of a creative guy.

And what if he didn't stay in Fresno or Milpitas or wherever the hell he was? After high school, why would he stay? What if he came back to LA and found himself a spot in South Central or Compton? Would there come a day when Ceese came face to face with Raymo again, only this time he's a cop with a gun and the law on his side, and Raymo is...

Not the same dumb malicious kid he was, that's for sure. Something more. Something worse.

If my life was touched by whatever power brought Mack and these fairies into our life, why wasn't Raymo touched? Or was he?

Ceese was standing in front of the Phelps house. Where Yolanda White lived. There were some lights on, but what did that mean? Garage door was closed so he couldn't tell if the bike was there or not.

Why was he afraid? He was a cop, but he was also a neighbor. He wished he hadn't strapped on his gun.

He passed through the low gate and walked to the front door and rang the doorbell. Still had the chimes that Mrs. Phelps liked so much. Longest door chiming in Baldwin Hills. And she'd never answer the door till they finished chiming.

Yolanda White apparently had no such qualms. The door was open less than halfway through the complicated melody. "Oh, good heavens," she said—not exactly the expletive he expected her to use. "A policeman at my door. What is it, the noise of the motorcycle or a charge that I was speeding? Or are you just here on a neighborly visit?"

"Miz Yolanda? Am I that old and still single?" She held the door wider so he could come in.

"Miz White, then," he said as he entered.

She asked him to sit, and when he did, on a big white furry polar bear of a couch, she sat down across from him on an ebony cube. "So," she said. "Let me guess. My bike is noisy, I drive too fast, I dress too sexy, and the Welcome Wagon wears a gun."

"Just got off work," said Ceese. "Cecil Tucker's my name. Everybody calls me Ceese."

"As in 'cease and desist'? You should have grown up to be a lawyer, not a cop. You got a brother named Nolo Contendere? What about Sic Transit Gloria Mundi?"

"I don't speak Spanish," said Ceese. "And I don't know any Gloria."

"So you're the one they chose to come tell me what they been hinting about since I got here."

"No, ma'am," said Ceese. "I suppose I chose myself."

"So what are you? Neighborhood watch? LAPD? Or you wanting to take me dancing?"

"I wanted to meet you is all. No dancing."

"Got something against dancing?"

"I don't dance."

"Two left feet? Got no rhythm? Or just never found anybody who'd dance with you?"

"I see I'm out of my league here," said Ceese. "I just can't think as fast as you talk."

"My problem, Officer Cease and Desist, is that I never once found a man who could."

"You're a fast talker."

"There was one, a long time ago. With him, when we were together I didn't want him thinking and he didn't want me talking."

"I'm glad to know you have happy erotic memories," said Ceese.

"Wo, now, that was a fine speech. They teach you that in cop school?"

"The word 'erotic' comes up now and then."

The challenge in her voice, her words, her posture, woke a memory in him. Was that how the woman in the black helmet and black leather had stood, looking up at him from the landing on the hospital stairs? Was that how she stood when she was talking to Bag Man on the street?

At that moment the doorbell rang, startling Ceese and making Yolanda laugh. "Now here's the guest I was looking for."

She strode to the door, flung it open, and there stood Mack Street.

Mack looked from Yolanda to Ceese and back to Yolanda.

"Why, it's that nice boy I gave a ride to school," said Yolanda.

Mack grinned. "I didn't know you knew each other."

"Step away from the door," said Ceese.

He was pointing his gun at her.

"Is that loaded?" she said.

"Mack, go home. Now. Get out of here."

"Are you crazy?" asked Mack. "She wasn't doing anything."

"I wasn't doing anything," said Yolanda.

"You called him here," said Ceese. "You made him come."

"She did not," said Mack.

"I'm just an unforgettable woman, Mr. Cop," said Yolanda.

"I came to tell her about how they planning to sue her," said Mack. "I think that's wrong."

"Get the hell out of here, Mack," said Ceese intensely. "She's got you under her control."

But Mack was rooted to the spot. "Ceese, you lost your mind?"

"I guess he's the jealous type," said Yolanda. "And we haven't even dated yet."

"I know you," Ceese said to her.

"That line might work in bars, but not in my living room."

"Well, what can I say? I'm kind of memorable, and you just ain't." Yolanda grinned. "What I do that makes you want to shoot me?"

"I was twelve. I was holding a baby."

"No sir, doesn't stir a memory," said Yolanda. "Besides which, if you was twelve then, I must have been about nine."

"You were exactly the age you are now," said Ceese.

"Then it wasn't me."

"You couldn't make me do it then," said Ceese. "So you come back to do it yourself?"

"Do what?" asked Mack.

"Kill you," said Ceese.

Yolanda laughed.

"She can't kill me," said Mack.

"Why not?" asked Ceese.

"I'm her hero."

Mack said the words with such simplicity and truth that it made Ceese lower his weapon a little.

"You are?" asked Yolanda. "I always wanted one."

"Your dream," said Mack. "When the flying slug—the dragon, whatever it is—when it comes to kill you, I'm the one who fights it."