by John M. Ford
change in. In the mirror, there was more blood on him than he'd realized. He rinsed his chest and slipped the shirt over his head. It was Stamped STOLEN FROM MICHAEL REESE HOSPITAL.
When he came out, Dr. Estevez was emerging from a cubicle. "The young lady ought to make it," she said. "You do good work."
Danny nodded.
"I mean that. You did it all dark?"
"There was light in the back seat."
"I mean, you didn't use any magic."
"Huh?"
"Never mind. You're from the country?"
"Duz it show s'much?" he drawled.
"When you came in, you said, 'We've got a woman.' One of the local people would have said, 'white female.' "
Danny thought hard about that. Things were going to be different here. People were going to be different, in more ways than one.
Dr. Estevez said, "I don't suppose you're looking for a job. W 7 e can always use another van jockey."
"Well, actually, I just got here, and ... I guess a job sounds pretty good."
"The pay's fair, but I guarantee the hours stink worse than anything you're used to. And you know the New Paradigm?"
"No."
"There are never enough of us, so if you bring somebody in and don't have another call right away, you can get drafted as an ED assistant. OR too, sometimes. And you do know which end of the baby to grab?"
"Did it for real once."
"Good enough. Anyway, it's all the fun of being a first-year trauma resident, without ever getting to be a doctor."
"We did all that at home. We didn't have a name for it."
McCain appeared from somewhere in the back of the ward. "Mr. Patrise wants to see you, Doc."
"Offer's open," Dr. Estevez said, and went into one of the cubicles.
McCain led Danny to another cubicle. ( 'loudhuntcr u as waiting
outside, holding a hand inside his coat. Danny had no doubt there was a weapon tucked away there. The elf opened the curtain and Danny went in.
Patrise was sitting up on a bed, his shirt off. His chest and arms were very thin, and his dark brown skin had the blue-gray cast of heart disease. EKG wires ran to a monitor; Danny saw a slightly abnormal rhythm, probably valvular trouble.
On Patrise's right chest was a black bruise the size of Danny's palm.
"You didn't tell me you'd been hurt."
"A ricochet. My coat stopped it." Patrise tilted his head back. His face was delicate, even-featured, thin-lipped. His hair was black and combed straight back from his forehead, caught in a silver clip at the back of his neck. "Some first night in the big city, eh, Hallow? What's the time?"
Danny looked cautiously at his watch. It showed just numbers. "Three-ten."
"Little late to show you the bright lights, then. But you're still going strong. That's good. Night people are at an advantage on the Levee. Lincoln."
McCain looked in. He had a broad, rocklike face, all planes and crevices. His eyes were sharp blue. When he looked at Danny they seemed friendly enough; Danny didn't want to see unfriendly on McCain.
Patrise said, "We'll go by the club; Doc can shake some hands."
McCain nodded and left. Patrise said, "They always treat your clothes like something dangerous. Find my shirt."
It was on a hanger nearby. The label said TURNBULL & ASSER. As he helped Patrise put it on, he realized that it was silk. He had never in his life seen a man's silk shirt.
Patrise fingered the rip in the shirt above the bruise on his chest, touched one of the EKG wires glued to his skin. "Shut that gadget off. I don't want them thinking I've died. Too many people have ideas already."
Danny switched off the monitor. Patrise peeled the electrodes off, buttoned his shirt.
"Mr. Patrise, the doctor on duty offered me a job here."
"I'm not surprised. Lucy can see competence a mile off. I'm
sorry to disappoint her. Don't worry 7 , Lincoln will make the excuses." He paused. "Perhaps it wasn't clear: you have a job. With me. Personally. There's no room for moonlighting." He pulled on an elastic-sided shoe. "You'll have plenty of your own time, but you work for me. Understand that and you'll have no cause to complain."
"Mr. Patrise, this is—I mean, I just drove into the city. You don't know me, it was just an accident—"
"There aren't any accidents." Patrise examined his slim hands, rubbed away a bit of electrode paste. "You have options, of course. You could work here. It's a nice place, if you don't mind the pay and the hours, the homicidals and the positive Wassermanns, all that. And, too, Norma Jean's family is Gold Coast, and they'll probably want to express their gratitude in a concrete way. But you'd regret it." He looked up, smiling. "That isn't a threat: I won't make you regret it. You just will." He stood up, wavered a little; Danny caught his arm.
Patrise looked up at him, eye to eye. "As for not knowing you . . . ask me again in a month if I know you. Cloud."
Cloudhunter pulled the curtains open, held Patrise's coat. At the nurse's station, McCain was signing some papers. Dr. Estevez waved as they passed. "Have fun, Doc," she said. "If you ever get tired of the good life, give me a call."
They got into the car, Patrise and Cloudhunter in back, McCain driving. Through the clear glass in front, Danny could finally see the city. A long building with lit strips of stairwell would be the hospital; beyond it was the hollow concrete shell of a structure just as large. McCain turned into a broad street lined with burnt wood, broken bricks, empty windows, lit only by the car's headlights and the orange sky hovering low above everything.
"People live out there?"
"Not so you'd call it that," McCain said. "This is the Boneyard. The Penumbra if you're in a fancy mood. Went in the big shakedown. You saw the first big wreck back there? They blew that as a firebreak, to save the hospital. Now it's too far out of the World and the Shade both for either to care."
There was more red in the airglou now. "It burns like this all night? Every night?"
"Nothing's really burning. The light's something from the
change. Witch stuff, not my department. We'll lose it once we're really inside. We're almost to the river now. Watch."
The car climbed a bridge approach. Danny could see red light turning water to blood. Suddenly the sky was black, with the fingernail moon descending. Stars came out as Danny's vision adjusted. He looked back. The river still had a pink tinge.
The little moon, without competition, washed down dark walls to wet pavements. Here and there a streetlamp glowed, and a bit of brilliantly colored neon flared. Motorcycles were parked in clusters, and a few of the boxy old-style cars.
Danny saw a multiple, hunched movement, as of something huge and dark and formless slithering down an alley—or else just a group of people, keeping their backs to the wind.
"Was that—"
"Probably. Where're you from, Doc?"
"Nowhere."
"Been there many a time. Little dull, but no cooking like it. Where?"
"Okay, Iowa. Adair, Iowa. Know anything you didn't know before?"
"Adair, Iowa. The James brothers pulled their first big robbery around there, didn't they?"
"Yeah. Yeah, they tried—but they robbed the wrong train."
"Ah, well, everybody has to start somewhere, eh?" McCain laughed, and Danny felt himself relax.
Then McCain said in a dead cold tone, "Where you start is knowing that all the attitude in your little farmboy body don't come up to the top of my shoes. Got that?"
It hit Danny like a fist. "I guess I'm learning."
"If you can learn, then it'll all be right. 'S'how it goes." McCain's voice was back to normal.
"Earlier—when Cloudhunter had the shotgun on me—he would have blown my head off just like that, right? No warning? Is that how it goes?"
"When you mean to kill somebody, only a damn fool gives him a chance to disagree. And only a damn fool pulls a gun without meaning to kill somebody." McCain turned, smiled—not all that reassuring a sight—
said, "Ease up, Doc. You did a good job tonight.
You work for Mr. Patrise now. There's no better friend you could have on the Levee."
"Are we friends?"
"I do sincerely hope so."
McCain stopped the car in front of a lighted building with a violet awning that stretched from the curb down stairs to a double glass door. Massed electric bulbs spelled out LA MIRADA.
The door was opened by a man in a white top hat and tails. "Good evening, Mr. Patrise. Mr. McCain, Cloudhunter. And good evening to you, sir. Your coats?"
Patrise said, "Pavel, this is Doc Hallownight. A full member of the club with all privileges."
"Delighted to meet you, Mr. Hallownight. What will you be drinking?"
"A beer. Please."
"Your brand, sir?"
"Uh—anything. Have you got draft beer?"
"Of course, sir."
The entryway was lit by brass towers that threw light against the white sculptured ceiling. Brass vases of fresh flowers stood in niches along the wood-paneled walls. The corridor led to a double door of glass, frosted in geometric patterns, framed in chrome.
That door was opened by a blonde girl in a white blouse and an extremely short black skirt. "Oh! Mr. Patrise!"
The name stopped everything in the room. The few people there all turned.
The room was large and circular, with a domed ceiling that was black with twinkling stars. The outer part of the circle was three steps higher than the center. On one side of the upper ring was a black glass bar, backed by chrome and mirrors and endless ranks of bottles; a woman in a white shirt and red bow tie was mixing drinks. A man and woman leaned against the obsidian bartop, interrupted in conversation. On the other side were dining tables, all empty but one where two men in dinner jackets and two women in astounding gowns were seated.
The lower circle was a glossy black dance floor, empty. At the rear of the room was a bandstand with a white grand piano; a woman leaned against the piano, toward a man seated at the keyboard.
None of them looked like elves, but there was enough glitter and cool light that Danny was hardly sure.
Patrise went to the occupied table. One of the women said, "Patrise, how good to see you! You won't believe the stories that have been going around tonight." She sounded very drunk.
"Then you must tell me sometime, Tonia," Patrise said genially. "Hello, Erika. Bob, Warren. Have you had a good evening?"
They agreed that it had been splendid, that Fay had been in top form.
"Then you must consider it on the house. Always a good time here."
They were dazzled at Patrise's graciousness, and oh my was that the time, they'd all turn into pumpkins, good night, good night.
The woman from the piano was running across the dance floor. She wore a low-cut, ruffled black blouse and a gold metallic skirt; she held the skirt up to run, her golden high-heeled sandals clacking on the black surface, which reflected her image full-length, two people tap-dancing sole to sole.
"Patrise, oh God, Patrise," she said, flung her arms out and hugged him. "Oh, God, you're here."
"Of course, Carmen, dear." He put his hands on her wrists and unwound her. "Meet someone new. Hallow, this is Carmen Mirage. Carmen, meet Doc Hallownight. We had a little to-do with the Ruthins tonight, and Doc saved Norma Jean's life."
"Ohh . . . where is Norma?"
"I'm afraid she'll be going home now."
"Oh, that's so sad . . . but you saved her? That must have been very brave."
Danny said, "Well—" and then Carmen's arms were around him. She was very warm, and wore a potent cinnamon perfume, and she hugged tight.
"Pleased to meet you," Danny said past the lump in his throat.
"You mean that isn't a tongue depressor in your pocket, Doc?" Carmen said. "Or maybe it is." She laughed and finally let him breathe. He couldn't think. He looked down at his scrub shirt and jeans, here among all the satin and silk, and felt like he was knee-deep in pigshit and had a live chicken tucked under each arm.
The bartender had arrived with a tray of glasses. Patrise and
Cloudhunter had brightly colored drinks in tall frosted glasses, McCain a mug of coffee with whipped cream. Danny got hold of his beer, took a gulp. It went down just fine.
"Doc, this is Ginevra Benci." He gestured at the woman with the drinks.
She was a little shorter than Danny, with intensely black hair, dark blue eyes. She couldn't have been much older than he was. Her black skirt came to just below her knees, her legs and ankles showing pale and delicate.
"Hi, Doc."
He looked up at her face. She was smiling. "Hello."
Mr. Patrise said, "And Alvah Fountain at the mighty Bosen-dorfer." The young black man at the piano waved. His hair was done up in a mass of long, slender braids.
The two people who had been at the bar were approaching. The man was an American Indian in a wide-shouldered suit and a flowered tie. The woman was petite and Japanese, with dark hair coiled up and held with jeweled pins; she wore a tailored suit and a black turtlenecked shirt, calf-high boots of light brown suede. "Evening, Patrise," the man said. "Is this an open party?"
"Of course. Doc Hallownight, Lucius Birdsong of the Chicago Centurion —"
"Syndicated worldwide through GNS," Birdsong said.
"—pen sharper than a Trueblood arrow. Tongue, too. And Kit-sune Asa, the Tokyo Fox."
"Welcome to the Levee, friend," Birdsong said, and shook Danny's hand. "What's the matter? Aren't you going to tell me you read and admire my column every day?"
"No."
"Fair enough."
The Tokyo Fox said, "You're a doctor?"
"I'm a paramedic. What do you do?"
"Right at the moment, I drink standing up. Pleased to nicer you, Doc."
Patrise said, "Where's Fay?"
Ginevra said, "She went home right after her set."
Patrise said, "Yes?"
No one spoke. Then Miss Asa drained her glass, put ir on Gi-
nevra's tray, and said, "About two AM a couple of my-mama-eats-ambrosia Ruthins came in, with a side dish of Vamps."
Carmen said, "You said the rule was—"
"I know," Patrise said calmly. "Ginevra, get the lady another drink. Ruthins, attended. No Highborns?"
"Nope." The Fox shrugged. "They were hinting that you wouldn't be coming home tonight. Didn't seem to get the rise they wanted, so they left after Fay sang. People started drifting out after that. Last half hour it's been just us and that mooch patrol you saw."
"Who took Phasia home?"
Lucius Birdsong said, "Stagger Lee."
Mr. Patrise spread his hands. "Another hot time in the old town. I think it's time we went home too, ladies and gentlemen: I believe I'll have to be seen by a few people today, upright and walking in my own semi-solid flesh."
Birdsong said, "Is that typewriter of mine still under the bar someplace?"
"I couldn't find an open hock shop," Patrise said, and the two of them chuckled at whatever the joke was. "Ginevra!"
"Yes, sir, almost ready," she said, whipping a cocktail shaker.
"Pavel will shut down in front; you serve Kitsune and Mr. Birdsong as long as they want, then lock up. You've been on golden hours since two. And take tomorrow night off."
"Yes, sir. Thank you."
"Cloud, see Miss Mirage home. Lincoln, Hallow, let's go."
They got into the car, Patrise alone in the back. With the Mi-rada sign switched off, all the world seemed dark, the big car's headlights just pushing the blackness aside for a moment.
Danny said, "The Ruthins are a big elf gang, right?"
"One of them," McCain said. "Red's their color. You see a red leather jacket, you take care."
"The car that shot at you was red."
"You're observant. Yes, that would have been the Ruthins. Unless it was someone else who wanted them blamed."
"Is there some kind of gang war going on?"
"Conflict, I'd say. And t
here's always conflict. War, now, well. They'll cut each other up as easily as a round-ear. You heard there
were gang elves in the club tonight: they can come right in as long as they follow the rules. Not like the pure-Ellyll clubs."
"What's an—ethyl?"
"E//y//. Not that I can say it right, either. That's an elf name for elves."
"And Miss Asa said something about Vamps. That can't be what it sounds like . . . can it?"
McCain's voice was suddenly tense and quiet. "Vamps are human or halfie kids who want so bad to hang around no-shit-real live elves that the elves let them. The price is that you get a taste of elf blood."
"You mean, like, literally."
"I mean real literally. There's something in their blood that hits mortals like heroin. Slurp, you're hooked, and you'll do anything for another little sip. So the elves think up in-ter-est-ing things for you to do. Be real careful around the Vamps: an elf'll kill you for the sake of a joke, but a sucker'll kill you and never know why."
The car turned sharp right, went down a ramp. A steel door rolled up before them, and they drove into a concrete bunker of a garage. There were half a dozen cars parked, none as big as Mr. Patrise's, but all in the same old-time style. The garage was only about half full. As they got out, Danny saw a row of motorcycles, some with sidecars: big Harleys, BMWs, classic Indians.
A man in coveralls was cleaning the parts of a Thompson submachine gun. Laid out on a table near him were two pistols, several knives, and a black metal crossbow.
Mr. Patrise said, "Good morning, Jesse."
"Morning, sir. Glad to have you home."
"Have Stagger Lee and Miss Phasia come home?"
Jesse looked at a wall clock with a round white face and a swinging brass pendulum. The glass case read REGULATOR. " 'Bout two hours ago."
They walked on to an elevator lined with panels of etched bronze. It began rising. "Hallow will be in the north wing with US," Patrise said. "Good morning to you, gentlemen."
The door opened. McCain stepped out, waved for Danny to follow. They left Patrise behind.
They were in a broad, carpeted corridor, with Art Moderne geometric wood on the walls and overhead lamps of marbleized glass. It looked about half a mile long.
