She'd started on Creedmore's Redback out of boredom, when she spotted the singer himself headed their way. He had borrowed someone's meshbacked cap and pulled it on backward, over his weirdly wet-looking bleach-blonde hair. He was wearing an electric-blue cowboy shirt with the store creases still in it, horizontal across the chest, and the white pearlized snaps open halfway down the front, revealing a pale, white, decidedly concave chest that wasn't at all the color of his face, which she figured was painted on. He had what looked like tomato juice in each hand, in a tall glass with ice. 'How do, he said. 'Saw that Maryalice over here. Thought I'd bring the old girl a drink. I'm Buell Creedmore. You ladies enjoyin' your beer?

'Yes, thanks, said Tessa and looked in the opposite direction. Creedmore did a quick, and to Chevette very obvious, piece of mental calculation, Chevette coming up as the one more likely to be profitably hit on. 'You hear about us in the city here or over in Oakland?

'We're just here for the hot wings, Chevette said, indicating the plate of chicken bones in front of her.

'They any good?

'They're okay, Chevette said. 'But we're just leaving.

'Leaving? Creedmore took a big swig of his tomato juice. 'Hell, we're on in ten. You oughta stay 'n' hear us. There was some weird-looking, greenish-sandy stuff, Chevette saw, around the rims of the glasses, and now some of this was stuck on Creedmore's upper lip.

'What you doin' with those Caesar's, Buell? It was the big guitarist. 'Now you promised me you wouldn't drink before the set.

'For Maryalice, Creedmore said, gesturing with a glass, 'and this here's for the pretty lady. He put the one he'd had the swig from down in front of Chevette.

'So how come you got that garlic salt on your mouth? the big man asked.

Creedmore grinned and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. 'Nerves, Randy. Big night. Gonna be okay.

'It better be, Buell. I don't see some evidence you can hold your liquor, be the last gig you ever play with me. The guitarist took the drink out of Creedmore's hand, took a sip, made a face, and walked off, taking the drink with him.

'Sons of bitches, Creedmore said.

And it was at this point that Chevette saw Carson enter the bar. Recognition, on her part, was instantaneous and one-hundred-percent positive. It was not Carson as dressed for lounges that smelled like aromatherapy, but Carson dressed for the knowing exploration of the lower reaches.

Chevette had actually been with him when he bought this outfit, so she'd had to hear about how the jacket was Alaskan steerhide (Alaskan steers having thicker hides, due to the cold winters), and a museum-grade reproduction of a 1940s original. The jeans were nearly as expensive, and more complicated in their sourcing, the denim woven in Japan on ancient, lovingly maintained American looms and then finished in Tunisia to the specifications of a team of Dutch designers and garment historians. This was the kind of stuff that Carson cared deeply about, this absolutely authentic fake stuff, and when Chevette saw him step through that entrance, she had absolutely no doubt that it was him.

And also, though she couldn't have said exactly how, she knew that she was in trouble. Maybe, she'd think later, it had been because he hadn't known she was looking, so he hadn't really been bothering to be the guy he had always pretended to be when he was with her, when he'd known she was looking.

It was like seeing a different guy, a very scary, very cold, very angry guy, and knowing it was Carson. Carson turning to scan the bar. What she did next surprised her. It must have surprised Creedmore even more. The top of the huge silver buckle made a convenient handle. She grabbed it, pulled, and brought him down, loose-kneed, to kiss his mouth, throwing her arms around his neck and hoping the back of his head, in the backward meshback hat, was between her face and Carson's.

Creedmore's ready enthusiasm was, unfortunately, about what she'd have expected, had she had the time to think.

33. DURIUS

RYDELL was midway back, through that lower-level crunch, when his sunglasses rang. He got his back to the nearest wall, took them out, opened them, put them on.

'Rydell?

'Yeah?

'Durius, man. How are you?

'Fine, Rydell said. The glasses were acting up; weirdly elongated segments of Rio street maps were scrolling down his field of vision.

'How are you? He heard the whine of a drill or power driver, somewhere in LA. 'You at the Dragon?

Durius said, 'we got major construction under way here.

'What for?

'Don't know, Durius said. 'They're putting in a new node, back by the ATM. Where they had the baby food and child care products before, you know? Park won't say what it is; don't think he knows. All the branches gettin' 'em, whatever they are. How's your ride up? How's that Creedmore?

'I think he's an alcoholic, Durius.

'No shit, Durius said. 'How's the new job?

'Well, Rydell said, 'I don't think I've figured out much about it yet, but it's getting interesting.

'That's good, Durius said. 'Well, just wanted to see how you're doing. Praisegod, she says hi. Wants to know if you like the glasses.

The Rio street maps shuddered, contracted, stretched again. 'Tell her they're great, Rydell said. 'Tell her thanks.

'Will do, said Durius. 'You take care.

'You too, Rydell said, the maps vanishing as Durius hung up. Rydell removed the glasses and put them away.

Beef bowl. Maybe he could grab some Ghetto Chef Beef Bowl on the way back.

Then he thought about Klaus and the Rooster and decided bed better check on the thermos first.

34. MARKET DISCONTINUITIES

'WHAT'S this look like to you, Martial? Fontaine asked his lawyer, Martial Matitse, of Matitse Rapelego Njembo, whose premises consisted of three notebooks and an antique Chinese bicycle.

Martial made tooth-sucking noises on the other end of the line, and Fontaine knew he was looking at the lists the boy had pulled up. 'They seem to be lists of the contents of safety deposit boxes, as required under state law in various jurisdictions. Antiterrorist legislation. Keeps people from stashing drug precursors, nuclear warheads, like that. Plus it was supposed to help prevent money laundering, but that was when money could still be big stacks of green paper. But if I were you, Fontaine, I would be asking my lawyer a different question. To wit: am I not breaking the law by being in possession of these documents?

'Am I? Fontaine asked.

Martial maintained telephone silence for a few seconds. 'Yes, he said, 'you are. But it depends on how you got them. And I have just determined that the actual owners of the listed properties, in every case, are dead.

'Dead?

'Entirely. These are probate documents. Still protected by law, but I would say that some items on these lists are property to be auctioned off as the various estates are executed.

Fontaine looked over his shoulder and saw the boy, still seated on the floor, down his third iced-guava smoothie.

'How did you get these? Martial asked.

'I'm not sure, Fontaine said.

'You aren't supposed to be able to decrypt files like this, Martial said. 'Not unless you're the fed. If someone else does the decryption, it's merely a privacy issue insofar as you're concerned. But if you're doing this yourself, or are knowingly party to it, you are in possession of or are party to possession of proscribed technology which can earn you a stay in one of those extremely efficient prisons the private sector has done such a fine job of building and maintaining.

'I'm not, said Fontaine.