'I smell disaster.' Grace predicted gloomily.

"Really?" I replied mentally, as we were en route to Allan Porter's place and she was riding shotgun, so to speak, in my head, the only place she couldn't be seen by mirror, camera or the naked eye. Three of my lads occupied the other seats in the car, armed to the teeth and ready for fun. "I smell…sauerkraut, ancient baked beans, and somebody's filthy socks."

'Same difference. Are these guys going to have your back if something bad goes down?'

I looked at the three of them. I hadn't bothered learning their names yet; why waste brain space on trivia until you know they're going to be around for a while? The driver was wearing the 'Weepy Clown' mask, and he was describing, with animation, all the details of the last torture-porn movie he'd seen. His vocabulary was limited to about a hundred words, but to make up for it he employed a particular word, the one which began with 'F' and ended with 'K', as noun, verb, adjective, and adverb, often all in the same sentence.

'Droopy Clown' had the front passenger seat, and he was squirming with discomfort because he had a sword strapped crosswise to his back like some kind of samurai or something. Taking it off either hadn't occurred to him or he rejected it for the sake of cool. 'Lazy Clown' shared the backseat with me, and he was listening raptly to 'Weepy', interjecting enthusiastically now and then.

"True, if brains were gunpowder they couldn't blow their collective nose, but they don't have to. Allan Porter isn't our Mr. X. The prime mover behind this little scheme will be hidden behind a few more pawns, believe me. Porter's just a middleman, and I'm going to lean on him to cough up the name of the guys above him. Weepy, Droopy, and Lazy are only along because I don't want him getting any funny ideas about standing up to me."

'Maybe, but if Droopy there actually draws that sword I bet he'll cut his own ear off.'

The image makes me chuckle. "You're probably right."

My thoughts about Grace swung wildly from friendly to furious and back again, sometimes in mere seconds. Leaving the issue of involuntary reactions to an attractive woman aside, it was kind of nice to have company— but on the other hand, the lack of privacy sucked, because I was never alone anymore. Our verbal sparring was fun, but who the hell did she think she was? I didn't want her to like me. I didn't need her to like me. If she was flesh and blood, I would have killed her half-a-dozen times by now, for getting on my nerves. Either that or we wouldn't have left the bedroom except for brief visits to the bathroom or kitchen.

I wanted to scream at her, shake her until her teeth rattled, smack her until the blood flew, hurt her.

I wanted to reach over to her as she lay out next to me on the bed, have her roll over and pull my face down to hers, to wind my hands in her hair as our mouths moved together.

Then I would strangle her with it--maybe. Or maybe not.

Did I mention that I was conflicted about her?

Looking on the bright side, what we did that morning in the modeling offices was, I thought, a step in the right direction. If somebody will countenance killing for a good reason, it won't be long before they're killing for a bad reason.

Or any reason.

Or no reason.

'I wouldn't count on that.' she warned me. She could read my every thought, of course.

"Oh, I would never take you for granted," I laid the butter on thick. "I'm not gonna take the bet about the ear, because I agree, but what about that bet we made earlier, about little Cassia and her usefulness? Where do you want to go for dinner?"

'I thought you were just joking.'

"What, you think I wouldn't have been after you for a look at your naughties if I'd won? I lost, fair and square, so you get to say where we eat and what, plus videos for afterward." I always keep my word—and besides, I wanted to encourage her to play again. And again, and again…

'Don't ever think I'm not on to you. The Flower of Bangkok, that's where I want to go. Best Thai food in Gotham City.'

"Where is it?"

'In the Little Tokyo-Chinatown area, of course.'

"Never been there. Uh, you're not going to make me order raw fish, are you? Because I'm not going to eat it."

I heard her mental chuckle. 'No raw fish, I promise. Cross my heart and hope to…wait, I'm already dead.' Remembering her death was something else that seemed to loosen her up a lot to the possibilities offered by mayhem and chaos. 'Only American palate-friendly stuff. Yummy shrimp in coconut milk with basil and lime juice. Cooked shrimp.'

"Shrimp? You know what shrimp are? Giant water bugs, that's what. I—." But I never finished that thought, because Weepy turned around and said, "Boss? We're here."

Here was a luxurious townhouse in the Palisades, an end unit made more private with artful landscaping which blended in with a wooded area. That was good; fewer neighbors to hear the noise. I piled out of the car and reached for the sawed-off shotgun. "Grace, be a love and pop in to see if anybody's home, wouldya?"

'If I must.'

"Good girl."

I could tell my goons couldn't see her, as they didn't react when a girl with pink shoes in a dress as green as a ripe pear and hair like a storm cloud floated up the walk past them and in through a closed and locked door. She returned in a moment. 'One woman and one man, but I doubt he's Porter. He looks like a personal trainer.'

"What's she look like?"

'Expensive but serious. They're doing some kind of martial arts workout.'

"Sounds like fun. Let's join in." I took out the lock with one blast of the shotgun. "Honey, I'm home!" I hollered. "Looocy, you gotta lotta 'splaining to do!"

I was looking right into the living room, which had one of those two-story high ceilings and not a whole lot else, because what little furniture there was had been moved against the walls to give the two combatants room to move. They'd been going at it with long staffs, Robin Hood style, but of course when I entered with my usual flair, they'd frozen in place.

Grace was right; the man did look more like an instructor than the owner of a joint like this. Bald and fifty-something, he looked as though he'd been carved out of beef jerky, all lumpy muscle and bulging veins. He wore only a pair of cropped trousers and a thin film of sweat.

The girl, on the other hand, was at least thirty years younger and very easy on the eyes. Brown hair and eyes, an obscenely full mouth, and a torso like a Victoria's Secret model, and I could see that for myself because she was wearing only one garment more than he was, a bra-top, which was trying hard to keep her contained but failing.

"Oh, my." I breathed, impressed. "My my my my my." If she were Porter's girl/wife/whatever, she was a distinct improvement over the late Gabrielle Mercier of Mercier Modeling. "Who are you, Gorgeous?"

My voice jolted her out of immobility. " My name is Talia. You." The girl spun the staff around in front of her, taking up a defensive pose. "You are that Jester person, are you not? What do you want?" Damn, her voice was just as sexy as the rest of her, husky and foreign-accented.

"I'm the Joker, not the Jester, and I'm looking for your boyfriend."

"What business can you have with my beloved? Get you gone, vile fool!"

"Who the hell writes your dialog? You sound like you escaped from the set of a sword-and-sandal movie. Anyhow, I'm, uh, not leaving until I get the answers I want."

"And if we compel your exit by force?" she asked, tensing up.

"You're sure welcome to try." I snapped my fingers at my lads, who had followed me in and were gawking at the goods on display. "Get them." I nodded at Talia and her instructor.

She spoke a few words in a language I didn't even recognize much less understand, and her instructor assumed a fighting stance beside her.

'Oh, no!' Grace moaned, and the fun began.

Scenes like these are better watched on a movie screen than described on a page. I mean, by the time I write that 'Droopy' drew his sword, cutting a chunk out of his earlobe in the process, and charged the instructor, who ducked, swung his staff, cutting 'Droopy's legs out from under him, 'Lazy' had already fired three shots at Talia. She had dodged them by twisting in mid-air like an Olympic diver and pulled a hidden blade out of her staff.

Her blade dragged through the air at not much less than the speed of sound, slicing across 'Weepy's throat, which sprayed a fine rain of arterial blood over all of us.

While that was going on, the instructor took 'Droopy' out with a powerful twist to the neck and headed for me, revealing his own blade as he lunged.

I scooped up 'Droopy's sword and went into street brawler mode. I never had jack in the way of weapons training. I just picked it up as I went along, and I'd gotten good at it just by managing to stay alive. What is a sword, anyway, except a big knife? You stick them with the pointy end and slice them with the sharp part.

Even so, I might not have managed to take him out were it not for Grace. She saved my ass by popping out of nowhere and scaring the shit out of him. I swear, he went grey at the sight of her, gabbling something, and I took advantage of his distraction. He died well, without cowardice.

In the end, Talia and I faced one another in that bloodied room, its pale carpet turned into a Jackson Pollock painting by spilled blood. I had 'Droopy's sword.

She had her own sword, and she held it to 'Lazy's neck. "Cease, monster, else your ally falls."

"Fine by me." I drew my gun, aimed and fired. 'Lazy' sagged in her arms. She stared at him, her lovely face flecked with his blood and brain tissue. "Now, Gorgeous, let's talk about your boyfriend."