I went home. Even in hindsight, I wouldn't have done anything different. I was just going home, maybe to read some Strange Worlds before bed. I unlocked the door to my place and stepped in.

Rough hands clamped on me and pulled me deeper in like I was a puppet. Before I could do more than squawk, something heavy re-concussed my concussion. Industrious shadows stuffed rags in my mouth and lashed my hands and feet together. They dragged me out and dumped me in the back of a car, only to haul me out ten minutes later. They lugged me indoors and down some stairs. I entered a cellar with cinder block walls and a single, sturdy oak chair. They lashed my ankles to the front chair legs. They tied my hands behind me, also to the chair.

Fighting double vision, I looked around in the light of a single bare bulb dangling from the ceiling. The place looked like it was built for this. For people to be kidnapped to. Four thugs in a ring looked at me in satisfaction, their eyes in deep shadow.

Deacon Largo loomed up behind them. They parted like hair for a comb.

He nodded. "Good. Any problems getting him?"

The thug in the checkered hat said, "No problem, boss! Real quiet."

"Get his gag out. Then leave. All the way out of the house. Guard the doors and don't come back in, no matter what noises. Got it?"

The men hustled. They yanked the rag out of my mouth. It caught painfully on my gums and my head was pulled forward. I grunted in pain. When I raised my head, I was treated to a slow-motion vision of Deacon Largo wriggling his meaty fingers into a chain of welded metal circles.

"These are called brass knuckles, Lucy." Like I didn't know.

"Whaddya want, Largo?" I wish I could say that my voice was all steely and defiant, but it wasn't. I could barely hear myself. I just felt sick and weak. My skull pounded so hard it felt like hammers tenderizing my brain.

"We'll get to that. But, first." I saw him draw his arm back. He punched. My mouth and cheek seemed to split open. The chair and I rocked back and to the right. I hit the concrete floor. My vision blacked out entirely.

Deacon's fat voice rose over the ringing in my ears. "That was for Hack. I bet you thought you were so clever. Well, you're not."

Powerful hands seized me and the chair and set us upright. I blinked a few times, and the blur of the room resolved somewhat. I could see Deacon's broad face, teeth bared. He breathed heavily. "You ready to start talking, Lucy? Or do I have to get rough?"

"Whaddya want to know?" I whimpered. Deep down, I felt the chill of the grave. I knew I would soon be dead, one way or the other. And helpless in the meantime. Maybe I could live a few more minutes if I kept him talking.

On the other hand, my quality of life at the moment was the pits. Why prolong it?

"Buster. How'd you figure he was in on things?" Deacon Largo's jowly face shone with sweat.

I closed my eyes for a second. Who could remember things like that at a time like this? As I inhaled to reply, I caught a new scent. Nightfire No.2. I didn't know what that meant, exactly, but I liked the smell. I opened my eyes and a little steel came back to my voice. "Buster smokes a lot, Largo."

"What does that have to do with anything?" Largo tapped me on the chest with his brass knuckles.

"Ow. I mean, he left piles of ash wherever he went. And the ashes had a distinct smell. Kind of exotic. Kind of fruity. I just noticed, is all."

Largo sneered at me in contempt. "That's all? And you expect that to stand up in court? That's laughable."

"Maybe. But I tracked it to him and his Egyptian cigarettes all the same." I defended my pride. As if my pride mattered, now.

Largo shook his head from side to side. "You got nothin'. Even a judge I don't own will throw that out. Ha!" Largo grinned.

"But I saw him, today! If today is still today."

He stabbed his thick forefinger repeatedly on my chest. "I know you saw him, 'cause he saw you. Glad we had this chat, Lucy! I feel lots better." Largo laughed out loud. He slipped off the brass knuckles and stuck them in his pocket. "But, smarty, you won't be a witness at no trial."

There it was. How much time had I bought myself by being cooperative? Two minutes?

Largo slipped a hand under his suit lapel. He came up with a large pistol. It was hard to tell what brand because it was pointed right at me. Whatever the make, it would be right at home in Texas. I hear everything's big in Texas.

"Don't I get a last request?" I mumbled.

"Don't be stupid." He pointed the gun at my chest.

"Killer," came a velvet voice, "What're you doing?"

Deacon Largo twitched. His jowls bounced. He whirled. Bianca posed in the doorway, a flowing, artful adornment the battered door frame didn't deserve. Largo blurted, "Bianca! What the hell? Why are you here?"

"Nobody told me I couldn't come, baby. What's this? Were you about to shoot Drew?" Bianca slithered off the door frame, caressing it sensually as she peeled away. She came to Largo and slid fingers into his thinning hair.

I felt like spouting some of my usual snark, but something in the Nightfire No. 2 told me I should keep quiet.

Largo resisted her caress better than I could have. "Bianca. Go. Go upstairs. I'll be along in a minute. It'll only be a minute."

Bianca twirled a finger around Largo's ear and leaned into him. "Baby. Can I kill him? I've always wanted to kill somebody."

Forget being quiet. "That's crazy!" I blurted.

Largo's jowly jaw went slack. He said to Bianca, "You?"

"Please, Killer? Please? You know I hate this guy."

Largo stared at her. He threw his head back and laughed. "All right, all right, fine. You know how to handle this?" The big man reversed his big pistol and offered the grip to Bianca.

I spoke through numb lips. "Unbelievable."

"Is there a safety switch thing?" Bianca hefted the pistol and sighted down the barrel at me. Her brown eye perched atop the weapon's black one.

"It's off already. You got six bullets. Bianca. You know, I'm surprised." Largo's shiny face was wreathed in a smile, and he backed off a step. "I was going to shoot him in the heart."

"Say goodbye, boy scout," Bianca said.

The velvet in her voice made everything soft. If she kissed me one last time, I'd die happy. I smiled a little bit at the thought.

Bianca spun in a quarter circle and put a slug in Largo. The gun was loud in the small room. My brain lagged 'way behind my eyes and ears, trying to comprehend. Largo staggered, looking down at the tidy hole in his chest.

"Sorry, Killer. Next time, treat me better." Bianca watched him collapse. He ended on his face. Without his heavy breathing in the room, silence fell.

I asked, "You all right?"

Bianca turned to me with an inscrutable little smile. "I'm good. I wasn't lying. I always did want to see what it was like to kill somebody."

"How was it?" I asked helplessly.

She sauntered toward me with a sway of hips. "Easier than I thought. But exciting. Drew?"

"Uh. Yes, Bianca?" I was hypnotized by the bright sparkle in her eyes.

"Do you think I should kill you, too? You're the only witness." She tapped the smoking barrel into the palm of her left hand, eying me thoughtfully.

"Why ask me? I'm biased in my favor. I might steer you wrong."

"I'm asking if you would protect me, silly. If you're not going to help me avoid arrests and trials and all that, I might as well just shoot you."

"I would," I admitted. "I'd lie under oath and a lot of other things, if I thought I might get one more kiss. You picked the right perfume. It's gone straight to my head."

"I've always heard that the same perfume can be worn by a thousand women, but it won't smell the same on any two. Something about chemistry." She came close. She knelt down. She put the gun on the floor and started untying my legs.

"There's only one Bianca," I said.

She glanced up. "You're cute, but don't fall in love with me."

"I won't," I lied. "I'm far too professional for that. This is strictly business. No, that came out wrong. I'm a bit giddy, now that I'm not dead."

My feet were free. They tingled. I wondered if I would be able to stand on them. Bianca went behind me to work on my hands. "Not dead is good. Ugh. I can't get these knots. I'm going to break a nail."

A scent arrived at my nostrils. Smoke, but fragrant. Almost fruity.

I turned my head and spoke low. "Bianca, get your gun. It's Buster."

It scraped over the concrete floor as she claimed it. She stayed behind me. I had a clear view of the door frame. In a moment, the frame darkened. In another, Buster sauntered through.

"Hello, Buster," Bianca said, smooth as melted butter. I wriggled my hands, straining. Did the rope have a little give in it?

"Bianca! What are you doing here—" Buster halted and stared in horror at Deacon Largo's body.

"I'm tying Mr. Lucy to a chair, of course." I felt Bianca's fingers fussing with the rope that bound my arms. I hoped she had Largo's big gun back there, too. I acted like a guy tied to a chair. Great acting probably not, but I think I came across as authentic.

"You dingy dame! What happened? Is he dead?" Buster hesitated, then kneeled and touched the back of Largo's neck.

"Don't you dare call me names," Bianca said.

Buster looked over at us, then at my feet. Loose ropes lay there. He put two and two together. The cigarette and its posh holder dropped from between his lips. He stood up, slowly. "Wh-which one of you killed him? Which one?"

I replied, "Let's just say the gig is over and it's time to pack up the trombone and go home. How'd you get so deep in, Buster?"

"How? I'll tell you how!" Buster's hands clenched and unclenched. "I have the worst father ever known, that's how! Is he dead? Tell me if he's dead, too!"

"The surgeon thought he'd make a full recovery," I said.

Buster's hands clenched and stayed clenched. His jaw was locked tight, so his words came out like a snake's forked tongue. "No! He needs to die!"

Bianca said, "I never seen a pair fight so much, Buster and Tigermouse. I didn't know who would kill who, first. It was exciting, watching them go at it. And tedious at the same time."

Buster's slick façade was long gone. His red face echoed Chief Largo's mad bull expression. "Tedious? It was more than any man could bear. I moved out and started working for Uncle Deacon, and that was ...," Buster glanced at the body and his voice trailed off. "... better ..."

"Buster," I said, "I got unsolicited advice. You might want to leave town. Whatever Deacon Largo had going, it's over."

Buster faced me squarely and spat, "You have no idea, copper! Brainless flatfoot! And you have no idea how high I rose in such a short time! I bet I can keep it going. Sure, I can."

"You're just a puppy, Buster," Bianca scoffed. "You're just too cocky to know it. Italian hounds eat puppies for breakfast."

Buster narrowed his eyes. "Witch. Wait! Is that a gun? You? You killed him?"

I struggled, trying to pull my hands apart. Try to get free of the chair. I thought maybe the rope windings were getting looser. I struggled more.

"He started beating me, Buster. He was a louse."

"Who cares? Drop the gun, Bianca." Buster came closer. It wasn't a large room.

"Who cares?" Bianca said, storms abrew in her voice. "I care! You're worse than he was."

"Back off!" I said, frantically shrugging and tugging at my bonds.

"Shut up, you!" Buster barked as he backhanded me. My head snapped back. As I rocked forward, I planted my feet and got up, chair and all. My vision was blurry. One of my hands was coming free of the chair. I yanked it desperately.

Bianca gasped and grunted. "Give me that!" Buster hissed.

I managed to turn around, dragging the chair. My left hand finally came free. Bianca and Buster were fighting over the pistol, tottering around like an awkward dance couple. I couldn't hit with my left, or I'd hit Bianca, so I swung my right, with chair still attached. The corner of the oak chair seat struck Buster in his rib cage with a hollow boom. He whimpered.

Bianca wrestled the pistol away, and Buster sagged and staggered. I hit him tepidly in the jaw with my left fist as I tried to shake the chair off my right hand. My weak punch seemed enough to keep Buster dazed.

Bianca smashed the gun barrel down on his head. He dropped.

I finally got my hand free of the chair. We stared down at Buster's limp form. Impressively still.

I said, "Nice."

"Thank you. But, really, I'm naughty."

"I know."

"I don't think you really do. Not yet."

We smirked at each other. Despite the Nightfire No. 2 and considerable euphoria at being alive, I managed to drag my mind to practical matters. "Where are we? Do you know the address?"

"Oh, well, let's see. If you come up Monroe, there's a hat shop. And then an apothecary on the left. They have the nicest soaps, there."

"Keep talking. Come on." I felt like a flat squirrel on the road after car number fifty, but I also wanted to stay alive, and at least four gangsters were guarding this house, wherever it was. I took her by the arm. Her body touched mine as we went up the stairs, slowly on my account.

"Well, after the apothecary, it gets trashy for a couple of blocks, and then there's an alley. Monroe and, oh I have it! Franklin. Monroe and Franklin, but away from the river. The place has walls, and a tiny, tiny sliver of yard."

We made it up to the ground floor kitchen. Nobody in sight. An archway led to a living room sprinkled with shabby stuffed chairs. All the windows were painted black on the inside. I spotted what I was looking for. "Monroe and Franklin, good work. And here's a phone. Do you think Deacon paid the phone bill?"

"Shall we find out?" Bianca said.

I picked up and dialed zero.

"Operator," a bored voice said instantly.

I grinned. "Get me the police."

In the pause, I studied Bianca. She was mussed. Vividly so. "You talked your way in here?"

"Sure. Men. You know."

"Know? Well, not really, but I guess I can imagine. I was thinking it'd be best if you talked your way out, too. Get yourself far away before O'Rourke shows up."

Just then the phone came back to life. "Sergeant O'Rourke, here, Chicago police."

"O'Rourke. It's Lucy."

"Lucy! What are you—?"

"Shut up and listen. Deacon Largo's dead. I'm trapped in a house surrounded by gangsters that don't know that, yet. It's near Franklin and Monroe. It's got a wall around it, and it's on an alley. O'Rourke. Rescue me."

The phone made some noises, but I was in a cloud of Nightfire No. 2. I let the receiver dangle in my hand.

"Are my lips bloody?" I asked Bianca.

"By some miracle, no."

I leaned forward. I planned to kiss her, to kiss her like in a romance novel where the birdies chirp like spring and all the bad in the world flies away.

But I heard movement. I whipped around and Buster was there. A rivulet of red ran down his cheek and jaw. He aimed a gun, a duplicate of the one Bianca got from Largo. I dove at him. The gun went off. I felt a pluck at my shirt collar. I tackled him, chest to chest. I heard the gun go thump thump on the floor.

I started hitting him in the face. I used both fists. I didn't stop and didn't stop.

Finally, when I heard myself panting, I looked at my knuckles, covered in his blood. I got off him.

"Drew," Bianca said.

She lay wedged between a couple of chairs. She held her own stomach. Crimson stained her dress and leaked between her fingers.

"No," I said. I scrambled over to her.

But what could I do? She was shot in the gut and there was nothing I could do about that.

"I don't think I've ever hurt this bad, Drew."

I stayed by her. I kissed her forehead and got her blankets. O'Rourke came eventually with about half the population of the station. I heard the shootout going on. I cursed how long it took. Bianca fell asleep and I cradled her.

When the goons were overwhelmed, two retreated into the house. I gunned them down from where I lay, even though my tears made it hard to aim.