He folded his newspaper and stood just as Phan and his cheap sunglasses sidled up behind her. The shifting emotions on her face were a joy to watch-confusion, recognition, fear, despair, calm all within a half second. Bitch should have been an actress.

“You know who we are,” Demise said as Phan-gun pressed discreetly in the small of her back-steered her toward him.

The girl nodded.

“You know why we’re here.”

She nodded again.

“Good. Let’s go someplace a little more private and talk.”

The whore didn’t fight, didn’t make a break for it. She just walked with them down to 41st where they had a limo with a Shadow Fist driver waiting in a loading zone and climbed in with them. Demise pulled a jacket over the idiot t-shirt as soon as he got in. He sat in the jump seat, facing her. Phan was beside her, gun no longer concealed and not particularly pointing at her. The driver pulled out into traffic.

“Okay,” the girl said. “So you going to kill me or what?”

Phan slammed the butt of the pistol into her face. The scream was short and high.

“We might, we might not. It depends,” Demise said. “You have the sample.”

She pulled a cellophane packet out of her pocket. Phan took it, turned it over in his hand, and nodded. Demise smiled. The girl’s cheek was puffing out where Phan had hit her, and she was sniffing back blood.

“Where’s the rest?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“I tell you that and you don’t need me,” she said. “Here’s the deal. You can have all the shit, but I keep ten percent of that cash as a finder’s fee.”

Demise leaned forward. She knew about him, and she tried not to meet his eyes. He waited. The limo hit a pothole and they all lurched a little. Phan sighed uncomfortably. Demise kept waiting, staring at her dark brown eyes and willing them up toward his. He got her when she glanced over to see whether he was still looking. He took her almost to the point of no return-farther than he’d taken Randy-before he looked away.

The driver looked back and Phan waved the pistol in a keep your eyes on the road gesture. It was almost fifteen blocks before she stopped crying.

“You understand the stakes?” Demise asked.

She nodded. The bravado was gone. She had stopped worrying about the bloody nose Phan had given her. Her mouth and chin were crimson, her eyes wide and empty. When she wiped her mouth on the black sleeve of her jacket, the blood smeared.

“We get all of it back by tomorrow at noon,” Demise said slowly. “The money and the smack both. You do it like a nice girl, and you can live.”

“Tomorrow,” she agreed.

“You can meet us in the same place. Just like today. You bring everything.”

“Everything,” she echoed. Tears ran down her face, but her expression stayed blank. He wasn’t sure she was taking in what they were saying, but then she went on. “I’ll have all of it for you, just don’t kill me, okay? That’s the deal. You don’t kill me.”

Phan smiled and holstered the gun. Demise leaned back and spoke to the driver over his shoulder.

“Jokertown. We’ll drop her there.”

The rest of the ride was in silence. The girl looked out the window, eyes vacant with fear. Phan leaned back. The ponytail really did look pretty sharp on him. Demise tried to picture the guy with a mustache, just thinking how the two would go together. Maybe he’d try it.

At the bleeding edge of Jokertown, the limo pulled over and Demise popped the door open for her.

“Tomorrow. Noon,” he said. “And wash your face. You look like someone beat the shit out of you.”

She scrambled out of the car and strode off down the street her head down. Phan leaned forward, watching her. The first flakes of snow pearled the windshield.

“Go ahead of her about three blocks and turn right,” Demise said to the driver. “You can drop us there.”

“Now what?” Phan asked as the limo forced its way out into traffic.

“Follow her,” Demise said. “She’s not thinking straight. She’ll head straight for the stuff. We get the money, get the drugs, and snuff the bitch.”

“Sounds good,” Phan said. “But I get to kill her.”

Demise raised an eyebrow.

“You enjoy it too much, man,” Phan said. “It’s not healthy.”

Joey stood on the street outside Our Lady of Perpetual Misery shifting his weight from one leg to the other. Mazzucchelli had been pretty clear-the only calls coming into the apartment in the last few days that looked off were from the church. It only made sense to check it out.

Just take a look around, Mazzucchelli had said. If it looks like that’s where they’re working from, call me and we’ll send in a team.

The stone building loomed across the street, grey and impassive. He didn’t see any Shadow Fist operatives walking in or out. Didn’t see any heroin blowing down the street with the snow. It occurred to Joey for the first time that he wasn’t sure exactly what it was he was looking for.

Since when did the Fist work with jokers anyway? Fuck, since when did they work with Catholics? The whole thing didn’t make sense. The confusion nauseated him a little. He should have worked with Lapierre. This was a job for someone smart.

The urge hit him to take another pill like he was hungry and the pills were food. He took the bottle out and considered it. His arms didn’t really hurt-hell, they hadn’t really hurt in weeks-but the pills made him feel better. Some part of him knew that wasn’t good-even felt guilty about it. But that didn’t make him want the stuff any less.

Something huge and bright blue swooped overhead, shrilling like a flock of birds. Joey shrugged deeper into his jacket, pushing the drugs away. He hated Jokertown.

“Just go in and look around,” he muttered to himself. “Like you were just gonna go light a candle for some dead joker motherfucker. That’s the thing.”

Joey squared his shoulders, crossed the street and walked up the steps. He held the door open for a nice little piece of ass-definitely not a joker-who was heading in right after him. Dark eyes, dark hair. She would have been really pretty if someone hadn’t been beating the crap out of her.

Of course he expected her to be upset. He’d have been naïve to think she wouldn’t. But he’d rehearsed what he’d say, some of it standing in front of the bathroom mirror so he could try out the facial expressions too.

He’d planned to start by scaring her. Then he’d take the moral high ground-she’d misled him, lied to him even, betrayed his trust in her. If she didn’t walk out on him right then, he could forgive her and explain why he’d gotten rid of the drugs and that the church would still protect her.

He’d also hidden the money, figuring it made it more likely that Gina’d be in the mind to hear him out.

“You get it back!” she screamed, leaning over him. “You crawl in the fucking sewer and get it back, you fat fucking sonofabitch!”

He lay on his back, his arms up to protect his face. Gina knelt on his chest, her weight making it difficult to take a breath. The cot was on its side where she’d thrown it, and his left ear hurt pretty bad where she’d hit him.

“Now, you… my trust…” he tried.

“You shit-sucker! You fuckbrained joker asshole! That was my fucking life!”

She swung at him again, her hands in claws. Then she stood and kicked him in the small of the back-she didn’t quite get his kidney, but it still smarted pretty good-and started pacing the length of the small room, shaking her head, arms crossed. Carefully, Father Henry raised himself up to sitting and picked his glasses back up from the floor.

“Now, Gina,” he said. “I think you need to just calm down a mite.”

“Shut up before I kill you.”

He rose slowly to his feet. That kick was going to leave a bruise. He could already feel it. He straightened his shirt.