"I… I'm not certain. Several days ago, I think."

MacWurthier blinked. "Karen is dead." He choked a little as he said it.

"Yes, I know."

"But-"

"I see that you are well, so that is all I was to do.Goodbye."

"Wait a minute!"

The Gypsy turned back, waited. "Yes?"

"I don't get-who are you, anyway?"

"Gypsy."

MacWurthier glanced at his clothing and nodded."You look it." He blinked. "You must be freezing out there. It can't be much above zero. What's your name?"

"Gypsy," he said. "I think that is my name."

"You don't know your name? You got amnesia or something?"

"Yes. That must be it. But it doesn't matter."

"Well, why did you say I'm all right?"

The Gypsy considered this, then said slowly, "You have been keeping yourself shaved and cleaned, and there is no liquor on your breath. The redness in your eyes is nearly gone. You have passed the worst of your grief, and it won't destroy you."

MacWurthier stared at him. "Man," he said. "This is weird. Well, can you come in for a minute?"

The Gypsy hesitated, then nodded. MacWurthier stepped aside and the Gypsy entered a short hall,with a small kitchen to his left and a small living room on his right. Karen, the ghost, stared at him from a picture on the far wall of the living room, above a matte black stereo system. The place was small and neat, save for a few magazines scattered here and there. The Gypsy read the titles: Time, Computer World, Datamation.

"Sit down," said MacWurthier. The Gypsy did so,sitting stiffly at one end of a brown Naugahyde sofa."Can I get you a beer? Coffee? Coke? Tea?"

"Tea would be nice."

"Sugar?"

"No, thank you."

"All right. Just a sec."

He went into the kitchen. The Gypsy felt Karen's presence in the room, and felt hints and traces, as of a remembered fragrance, of what the two of them had been for each other. There had been anger as well as love here, but the anger had never been violent, and the love had still been strong when Karen had died.

MacWurthier returned with two cups of tea. The Gypsy tasted it. It was black and bitter, but of a good kind. He felt a warmth as it went down his throat that made him wonder if he had, in fact, been cold.

"So, did you meet Karen while she was ill?"

No, I met her while she was dead. "Yes."

"She asked you to look after me?"

"She said you cared for her very much, and she was worried."

He swallowed, and there was pain on his face. He would have new lines in a year; he would become older. It was sad. It was inevitable. "Well, thanks."

The Gypsy nodded.

"It was leukemia," MacWurthier continued. "Hell of a thing."

"Yes."

"I think I'll move out of here."

"Perhaps that would be best." As he spoke, his vision began to blur, which meant that soon his headache would return.

MacWurthier continued, "It's hard, you know? All the things we used to do together. Every time I go by the park, I see those horse-drawn cabs we used to ride in, and I almost cry. There was this one guy we used to get on Sundays who'd take us off the main paths- Once we went all the way around Circle Lake."

He was staring off into the distance, but the Gypsy almost dropped his teacup. The vision came to him of the Coachman, thin and dark, cynical and drunken.He must find him. He must. He dimly heard MacWurthier ask if he had a place to stay the night, but his concentration was elsewhere. He must find the Coachman, and his brothers. Soon.

If only he could remember why.

They say the weapon vanished,

they say the suspect split.

Point your finger somewhere else;

I couldn't give a shit.

"STEPDOWN"

"Please," said Stepovich. He felt the word grate up his throat.

Marilyn swung back to look at him reproachfully."Stepovich, you bastard, that isn't fair!"

"1 know," he said. "But it's the only thing I have left, so I'm saying it. Please."

She said nothing as a secretary tip-tapped past them in high heels, but as soon as she was safely out of hearing range, she leaned closer to Stepovich and hissed, "Listen, I know I owe you. And I've said any number of times that I'd make it up to you in anyway I could. But I didn't mean something like this!This is bending a lot of rules, Mike. And people like us don't do that. It's one of the reasons we get along so well. So don't ask me."

He clenched his teeth a moment, standing with his head lowered. He knew it wasn't fair. He knew this wasn't the kind of thing she'd meant when she'd promised to pay the favor back. She'd meant dinner at her house, or an evening out at her expense or something else that might have led to places he wasn't ready to go. Not a favor that could lead to her losing her job. So she was upset, not just because he'd asked for this, but because he'd never asked her for the other. She put her hand on the door of the ladies' room again. He'd deliberately caught Marilyn out in the hall, away from her computer and coworkers. She probably had to go to the John pretty bad, and she'd already told him "no" twice. But he needed help. And he'd been the one to go in and find her nephew in that rat-ridden flophouse, and drag him out and help Marilyn drive him across to Pennsylvania and check him into a drug rehab center. Marilyn wasn't even the kid's legal guardian. They'd bent a rule or two then, and she knew it. He'd sweated day and night for six weeks that the kid was going to have his parents press some kind of kidnapping charges. But Stepovich had done it, because even if it was against the rules, it was still right. And maybe what he was asking of Marilyn was the right thing to do also.Maybe.

"Please."

She spun on him, a transcription clerk with doggie brown eyes, suddenly transformed into a hellcat. She took a step toward him and he involuntarily stepped back, expecting to feel the rake of her nails. But she snatched at his sleeve and pulled him closer.

"Listen!" she hissed, sharp as broken glass. "Give me that damn description, and I'll do a search. Nationwide, if that's what you want, and to hell with my job if someone wonders why I'm using unauthorized link time. But listen, pal, you gotta do something for me, too. And then we're going to call it square and no more favors between us, right?"

Stepovich hated the way this was going. Marilyn wasn't his friend, exactly, but they'd been good at working together, more than acquaintances. She'd thought that he would never ask her to put it on the line for him, not on something like this, anyway. But,damnit, it was the only thing he could think of to do.Bend a few more rules to get himself back on the right track. Bend them so he could clean up the mess he'd made of things with the Gypsy thing. He didn't hesitate to grant her favor, but only asked, "What is it?"

"You put a muzzle on that horny little shit you calla partner, that's what! He's hitting on Tiffany Marie two and three times a week. You tell him she's no whore, not anymore, and he'd damn well better quit treating her like one."

"Okay, okay," Stepovich muttered. He felt like he'd just stepped in dog manure, Durand and Tiffany Marie? Next Dumbshit would be going after the jumprope and jacks set. Marilyn snatched the carefully wrought description from his hand, and spun away to the rest room. "I'll call you tonight, okay?" he said after her. She gave no sign of hearing him, but he was sure she had. She pushed the door open so hard it bounced off the stopper. He turned away. The day had turned rancid, all its good intentions gone to slickness and deceit.

He knew he'd lost whatever it was they'd shared,mutual respect, whatever it was. She'd never trust him after this, and he'd miss that. But she was the only one he knew who could take his carefully remembered description of the Gypsy and turn it into possible names and criminal histories, without his having to fill out a bunch of forms and official requests.