THE CASE OF THE LADY IN RED

Prospective clients usually come to our office. We certainly don't meet them in alleys - the class of client you get under those circumstances is dangerously low.

But this client was special. For one thing, he'd have a real problem just getting up to our office. Off-hand, I wasn't sure if the stairs would support his weight. And even if he managed to get up to the fourth floor, I didn't think that he would be able to fit through the office door.

His name is Fred Dukes, but his nickname on the street is the Blob. He's muscle who works for a small-time gangster named Pietro Maximoff.

It's a long story, but Fred and I know one another from way back. I wouldn't exactly say that we were friends, but back when I also worked for Pietro Maximoff, we'd covered each other's backs more than once. In the process, I got to know Fred pretty well.

Bottom line: There was a time when I could count on Fred and he could count on me. Fred Dukes is dumber than a box of rocks, and he's lived a life that's an ode to bad decisions, but I both trusted him and owed him. So when he called and asked if we could talk, I instantly agreed.

"Hey, Dom," Fred said quietly. He was sitting on the concrete loading dock of an abandoned building. His gray suit - which had to be special-tailored for his block of a body - had seen better days. And Fred himself looked like a man with lot on his mind.

"Hey, yourself," I replied. Marie, who was standing right next to me, didn't say anything. She didn't know Fred like I did, and she didn't think dealing with him was a good idea. But I was the senior partner in our little PI outfit, so she'd grudgingly agreed to play ball.

"What do you want, Fred?" I asked as I sat next to him on the concrete dock. Marie remained standing, her arms folded underneath her breasts. A trick of the light made the blaze of white in her auburn hair seem to glow.

Marie and I are two very different kinds of women. I dress like a man - like you'd expect a private investigator to dress - in pants, a jacket, and a pair of black leather men's shoes that are useful if you need to run somebody down or kick them into submission. Inside my jacket is a shoulder-rig for my M1911 and the leather case that holds my PI license. Marie, on the other hand, always wears a dress and a pair of heels. And she carries a purse. Inside the purse she keeps some cash, lipstick and eyeliner, and a .44 revolver.

We're also both different from most other people. Most folks call us 'powered'. The scientists that we've met like to use the word 'mutants'.

With some difficulty, a thoughtful expression appeared on Fred's vast face.

"There's someone I know... a friend. He's in trouble and needs help," Fred said.

In the PI business, you run into a lot of people who have "friends" in trouble. That particular fiction usually doesn't last long once the investigation begins.

I kept a neutral expression on my face as I responded. "Okay. What kind of trouble?"

Fred pursed his lips, painfully searching for the right words. "When he was a lot younger, my friend did something that maybe he should'na done. He needed some money in a hurry, so he made a movie."

Then, obviously embarrassed, Fred ground to a halt.

"What kind of movie?" Marie asked. She seemed genuinely puzzled. Despite the fact Marie has been around the block more than a few times - both as a gangster and as a private investigator - she does have some odd blind spots.

Fred licked his lips as the tips of his ears actually turned distinctly pink. "It was... uh... a movie where my friend was naked. And he... uhm... he was with some other guys."

One of Marie's finely plucked eyebrows elevated a considerable distance up her forehead, but she didn't say anything. An uncomfortable silence descended on the three of us.

"So," I said slowly - deliberately breaking the awkward moment, "your friend was in an all-guy stag movie. Where do we come into this, Fred?"

Fred sighed and shook his head. "Somebody's found the film and is using it against my friend. They're making him steal things. My friend's not exactly the smartest guy in the world and a lot of his plans don't always work out. So it's just a matter of time till he gets in big trouble."

It was time to speed up the conversation. "You want us to get the film back?" I said.

Fred nodded.

"Any idea who has the film?" Marie asked.

"Nope," Fred replied mournfully.

We spent a few more minutes talking with Fred, trying to nail down something useful that we could work with. While he did give us some background, Fred didn't have much more for us. According to Fred, his 'friend' was contacted by mail and told what to do. The thefts were straight-forward - jobs lifting cash from smalltime crooks. It was the sort of thing where the victims couldn't go to the cops. The cash was then mailed to a post-office box in upstate New York.

Back at the office, I made a long-distance phone-call, trying to work the post-office box lead. Fortunately, the post-office in question had a gabby postmaster. It turned out that the box was registered to a name nobody at the post-office recognized. He paid for the box with cash. And somebody different showed up every Monday to pick up the contents of the box.

That was the best we could do without leaving town.

"So the post-office angle is out for right now," I told Marie disgustedly. "That doesn't leave us with much in the way of leads."

Marie nodded. She was curled up on the easy chair, her high heels on the floor in front of her chair, and her feet tucked beneath her body. I was behind my desk, leaning back in my chair with my hands behind my head. Sooraya - our secretary - was across the room, sitting primly at her desk while she caught up on the office bills. Her son, Hassim, was playing on the floor next to her.

"You know, if Fred is boosting small-timers, I'm surprised we haven't heard about it," Marie said. "There's no way he could be subtle about it."

"Fred can be a scary guy," I pointed out. "And crooks don't like to admit that they've been robbed. It gives other people ideas. But if he keeps robbing bad guys, it's only a matter of time that he builds up too many enemies."

"Do you have any contacts among the local pornographers?" Sooraya asked as finished writing a check.

I made a face. "I've heard of the guy who Fred said made the film. His name was Brett Williams and he was killed in a car accident a couple of months ago. He had a rep as a guy who made surprisingly high-quality blue movies. They're noted for almost studio-level filming and editing, young and good-looking actors and actresses, and very enthusiastic performances. His work is pretty well known in certain circles and gets a high price. Even more so since he died."

"You know, that's quite a coincidence," Marie said thoughtfully. "The guy who made the dirty movie in question dies fairly recently... and then one of his film's suddenly being used to blackmail Fred."

I nodded in agreement. "It makes you wonder if someone took over Williams' business - and then found something interesting buried within the inventory."

"Why wouldn't Williams have sold Fred's film long ago?" Marie asked.

I shrugged. "Maybe it just didn't have a buyer - I sort of assume that homosexual porn featuring a guy like Fred is something of a specialty item."

Marie and Sooraya both shuddered. I have to admit that the idea of a naked Fred Dukes is kinda off-putting.

"Or maybe Williams had plans of his own for the film," I continued. "Having something on a guy as big and tough as Fred could be handy in the long run. Williams just happened to die before he ever needed to use it."

"That's possible," Marie said with a slow nod.

"So let's go have a talk with the Williams family," I said as I reached for my hat.

"Brett wasn't a bad man." Mrs. Williams was a small and mousy woman, grey-haired and pleasantly wrinkled. She was wearing a housecoat and slippers as she poured fresh-made coffee for us. A small plate of really excellent short-bread cookies were on the table. I'd already had two of them.

We were sitting in the meticulously clean kitchen of Mrs. Williams' sea-side bungalow. The neighborhood was upscale and a recent model Packard was parked in the driveway. Outside, a trio of children were yelling back-and-forth as they played in the neatly fenced front yard. Mrs. Williams was babysitting her grandchildren.

It struck me as a good way to live out your retirement years. Apparently the pornography business is pretty lucrative. Like most of the criminal vices, I imagine it commands a good price for its product.

"A few years back, Brett got in trouble with the higher-ups at Universal," Mrs. Williams continued regretfully. "Some equipment turned up missing and they blamed him, even though Brett had nothing to do with it! Brett was fired and then blackballed from the movie industry. Nobody would hire him, so he did what he had to do to provide for his family. I wish people would remember him for that."

I nodded neutrally. Pornographers normally hire the young, dumb, and desperate. And then they get all of the money while their 'actors' get chump-change and a better-than-average chance of a case of syphilis. Maybe Brett Williams had been different, but I rather doubted it.

"We were hoping you could tell us who took over your husband's business," I said as I took a sip of tea. "We're particularly interested in any product he had in stock."

Mrs. Williams' pleasantly brown eyes met mine. For just a moment, I could see something hard in them.

"Why do you want to know?" she asked pleasantly enough.

"Our client is interested in a movie that your husband made several years ago. It's possible he never sold it."

"My husband made a lot of movies over the years," Mrs. Williams pointed out. "And as far as I know, he sold all of them."

I nodded. "This was a film featuring a pretty unmistakable guy. He's six-and-a-half feet tall and almost that wide."

Mrs. Williams shook her head. "You have to understand - my husband was very careful to keep his work separate from his family life. I know very little about what he did. And I certainly didn't watch any of his movies."

"But none of his movies were around after he died?" I asked.

Mrs. Williams nodded. "There were some clips - sections of movies that he had edited out for one reason or another. There were also a lot of photographic negatives."

"What happened to them?"

"I got rid of everything," Mrs. Williams said with a slightly triumphant smile. "The clips and negatives, the cameras and lights, the stage props and backdrops, the unshot film, and Brett's list of available actors and actresses."

"Who did you sell it to?"

Mrs. Williams' smile became wider, "To a handsome young man with a charming accent. He said his name is Remy LeBeau."

Remy LeBeau runs the best speakeasy, nightclub, and gambling parlor in town. It's a fancy, expensive, and decadent place that decent people never admit to visiting. For somewhat less than decent people - like Marie and I - it's the place to be. If you're a regular at Remy's, then you've made a position for yourself in town. If nothing else, it means you have a lot of money.

Expense is part is what keeps me from being a true regular at Remy's. However, I do know the boss, and Marie knows him even better. Remy has always had a serious case of the hots for her. I didn't particularly hold that against him. After all, why should he be different than most men?

Remy's doesn't really have opening and closing hours. Sometime in the wee morning hours, the last of the drunks are put into cabs and sent home. Then the staff cleans up and restocks with a quick and precise efficiency that would do the U.S. Army proud. The doors open again when the first customers appear.

A mature woman with short, meticulously styled, coal-black hair greeted us with a broad smile. She was wearing a tuxedo that was cut in a manner that somehow emphasized her curves. And she had a lot of curves to emphasize.

"Miss Domino, Miss Rogue, welcome to Remy's!" she said grandly as she opened the inner door to the club.

"Thanks, sweetie," I said absent-mindedly as Marie and I walked inside. The place hadn't really started hopping yet. The band was still tuning up its instruments and there were no dancers on the side-stages. The doors to the gambling room was open, and through them I could see a half dozen men and women indulging in their favorite vice. Another dozen-or-so people were scattered through the main room, drinking and talking in small groups.

"Her name is Denise," Marie said to me as she scanned the room. There was no sign of Remy.

I looked at her in surprise. "What?"

"The lady at the door," Marie said as we walked through the table section. "Her name is Denise."

"I'll remember that," I said. And I meant it. It's a handy thing to know names - people react well to that sort of thing. Marie is actually better at names than I am. Hell, when you get down to it, she's better with people than I am. That's a pretty useful skill and it's a big part of what she brings to our team.

"She's been with Remy for a long time - since this joint opened as a matter-of-fact. She started as a dancer," Marie continued absently.

"She has the body for it," I said with a chuckle as we sat at the bar. The bartender put whiskey doubles in front of us. Like I said, we aren't exactly regulars, but the people at Remy's still know us.

"It turned out that Denise had a head for numbers and Remy put her to work as staff," Marie finished.

"Good for her," I said with an approving nod.

Then Marie smiled at me. "In her younger days, she was one of the highest-price working girls in the city. Her fee was fifty dollars a night. There were men who paid it - and then came back for more."

I let out a low whistle. Fifty bucks is a lot of money. Marie and I routinely risk our lives for a lot less than that. And ever since the Depression hit, you could rent a desperate youngster for pocket change.

By now, Marie's smile was decidedly mischievous. "So I was thinking, maybe it's time for us to consider a career change."

I rolled my eyes as I downed my whiskey. Marie is always trying to shock me.

"So how much do you think the rich and foolish would pay for our services?" Marie asked with a laugh.

"We're both out of practice with men," I pointed out.

"Then maybe we should start with rich and foolish women," Marie said contemplatively as she took a delicate sip from her shot glass.

"I would be honored to offer my services as your business manager," Remy interjected.

He was right behind us. That man can be pretty sneaky when he tries.

I scooted out the empty barstool next to me. Remy nodded graciously and sat down. The bartender promptly poured him a white wine.

"Marie and I were just speculating," I told him. "We don't really have a career change in mind."

Remy shrugged. "A pity. The oldest profession is not a source of revenue that I normally pursue - although I do allow the right sort of lady to discretely practice their trade here. However, I think Marie's idea is intriguing. You are two very desirable women. And as your manager I wouldn't have to worry about abusive customers. After all, you two are more than capable of taking care of yourselves. That would reduce the percentage of your income that would go to me."

"So what do you think we should charge?" Marie asked eagerly.

Remy gave her his best dazzling smile. Talking about sex with Marie, even bought-and-paid-for sex, was obviously something that appealed to him.

"There's a saying, 'cher - 'there are no expensive women, but there are expensive men'. A working woman should always charge whatever the market will bear."

"Tell you what," I interrupted. "What if we just wanted to make a dirty movie?"

The easy-going smile was still on Remy's face, but it was gone from his peculiarly deep eyes. And rather than staring at Marie, he was now looking at me.

"I don't understand," he said.

"Word is that you bought out Brett Williams' shop after he passed away," I answered.

Remy came to a quick conclusion and answered me honestly. "As a matter of fact, I did."

"A new sideline, Remy?" I said in a slightly shocked tone. "It doesn't seem like your thing."

He gave me a bland smile. "I was hoping to broaden my range of operations. It's always good to learn new things."

Marie made an impatient noise. "Cut the crap, Remy. Why did you buy Williams' dirty-movie operation?"

Remy's attention went back to Marie - and he let out a long, weary, sigh. Then he nodded back towards the front of the building. In a semi-dark corner behind the front bar, a pair of spectacular-looking young ladies were scrambling out of their street-clothes and into their dancing outfits.

"Some of my dancers occasionally did work for Williams," Remy said. "I found out that they were being blackmailed. It was a 'give me money lest I send pictures of your shocking deeds back to ma and pa on the farm,' sort of thing."

"And you intervened out of the goodness of your heart?" I said. I tried to keep any skepticism I might be feeling out of my voice.

Remy gave me a hard look. "Believe what you want, 'cher. I bought what was left of William's operation in the hope that it would cut everyone's losses. His widow just wanted to get rid of it all and sold me what was left of the business for a song."

"Was there much in the way of old material?" I asked.

"Some negatives and film out-takes - not as much as I'd hoped. I destroyed them myself. Then I put out the word that I was tired of this blackmail merde and there would be consequences if it didn't stop."

"Did it work?" Marie asked. "Has the blackmail stopped?"

Remy nodded his head. "Yes."

"We need to talk to someone who was on the blackmailer's receiving end," I added quickly.

Remy shrugged. "That tall and dark girl behind the bar? She's one of them."

The dancer was as Remy had advertised - a tall and hot-eyed brunette. I'd seen her on-stage before. She was pretty good.

"Where's the cute redhead?" the dancer asked Marie. She was most of the way undressed and the transparent silk and sequin outfit she was about to put on was draped over the bar. She had a fantastic body.

Marie grinned broadly. "That was a one-time thing."

"My name's Lucy," the dancer told Marie. "Tell your friend that if she comes back again, I'll give a special show. Just the two of us. But it's only fair to warn her that I actually do bite."

I had a pretty good idea who those two were talking about.. Marie has spent some time around one particular redhead. In fact, they worked together back when I was missing. Her name was Jean Grey.

"The lady in question already has a girlfriend," I said.

Lucy gave me an amused and utterly confident look. "Then maybe it's time for her to trade up."

Lucy obviously didn't really know Jean that well. Jean's lady-friend was none other than Emma Frost - a fabulously rich ice-queen beauty who's also an incredibly powerful psychic.

"I'll let her know that your interested," I said dryly. "But right now we'd like to talk about something else."

"Like what?" Lucy said disinterestedly as she skinned her panties down around her ankles and stepped out of them. By now she was completely naked and completely unconcerned about the fact. Being an exotic dancer shuts down the part of your brain that cares about modesty.

"Like blackmail," I said.

Lucy paused for a long second as she coldly studied our faces. Then she clasped her hands together and leaned towards us, her forearms against the top of the bar. It was a pose that put her face and breasts - both quite nice, by the way - on display.

"I don't have a lot of money right now," she said. "And I don't get paid until the end of the week. How about after work I provide some personal services and we call it good?"

"Tempting, but we're not the blackmailers," Marie said.

There was another pause as Lucy studied us again. She was having a problem figuring us out.

"We're PI's," Marie continued. "And we have a client who's in the same boat you were. If we find whoever is bothering you, maybe we can shut him down forever."

Something eager seemed to flare in Lucy's eyes. Then she reached under the bar and grabbed a bottle and three glasses. Putting the glasses between us, she poured us all a drink.

"Let's talk," she said.

"Money was tight when I first got to town," Lucy said as she took a meditative sip from her drink. "Somebody told me about Brett Williams. I got in touch with him and he gave me some work. At first it was pretty low-key - I just took my clothes off for the camera. But after I talked to the other girls, it was pretty obvious where the real money was. So I started on the hard end of the business."

"What was Williams like?" I asked. Maybe that really wasn't too important, but I was curious. And background information has a habit of becoming useful.

Lucy smiled into her shot glass. "Not as bad as you'd think. Not as good as you'd hope. He was a tough boss, but he paid on time and kept his hands to himself. There's not a lot more you can ask for in that line of work."

"Did you ever think he was the blackmailer?" Marie asked.

Lucy shook her head. "No. Brett just didn't strike me as the type. And besides, it was still going on after Brett was killed in that car wreck."

"How much did they want?" I broke in. That might be important - it could tell us something about the blackmailers.

Lucy made a wry face. "Not too much. In fact, it was something I could easily afford to pay every week. I guess that was smart - instead of it being so bad that I'd skip town or tell them to go to hell, it became just another bill I had to pay. So I paid and got on with my life. And I wasn't the only one. A few other girls who worked for Brett were in the same position."

"How did you make your payments?" I continued.

"Cash mailed to an out-of-town post-office box," Lucy replied immediately. "It was in some podunk town in New York."

Marie and I exchanged glances. That tied neatly into Fred's story.

"Any idea who was behind it?" Marie asked.

Lucy shrugged helplessly. "I figured it was somebody who owned some of Brett's stuff - and then recognized me from here. That could be just about any customer."

"But it stopped recently?" I added.

"Yep," Lucy said with obvious relief. "Right after Remy bought the last of Brett's stuff and put out the word that it had to stop. Believe me when I say I'm grateful."

Marie gave me a puzzled look. I was frowning.

That didn't quite fit.

The band was finally playing. Lucy and a few other dancers were onstage. Remy was meeting and greeting people as they eagerly walked into his gambling den. I guess it pays to be polite to people who are giving you their money.

Marie and I were at a table, still working on the drinks Lucy had given us.

"So the blackmail stopped for Lucy... but not for Fred," Marie said slowly.

"Fred's probably bringing in a lot more cash," I pointed out.

"I suppose," Marie said doubtfully. "And it does make sense that our bad-guy would decide to leave Remy's people alone after he put out a warning. It isn't really smart to cross Remy."

"Do you have any favorite suspects?" I asked Marie. She has pretty good instincts about people.

"Mrs. Williams is a possibility," Marie said immediately.

I nodded. "The same thought occurred to me. She had access to the pictures and movies. And she knew who her husband's actors and actresses were - remember she mentioned that there was a list she sold to Remy?"

Marie nodded and glanced at Lucy. "Yeah, but while I can maybe see her doing small-time blackmail, I can't see her getting into powered-crime. Forcing someone like Fred to boost other crooks is a pretty dangerous next step. It's way beyond just forcing some strippers to give you a few percent off the top of their earnings."

"Remy's another possibility," I suggested.

Marie forced herself not to look in Remy's direction.

"He would know which of his people worked with Williams," Marie agreed. "And if his girls are starved for cash - but not because he's underpaying them - that would make them both better employees and a lot more compliant if he wanted something extra from him."

"Makes sense," I agreed, "but..."

Marie smiled. "But neither of us really buys that. Remy's a rogue and a cad - not an asshole."

"So we're back to 'it could be anybody'," I growled.

Marie sighed. "Unfortunately, what Lucy said makes a lot of sense. Any customer here might also own one of Brett's dirty movies. If it's the right movie, that would give them what they need."

I finished my drink and held the glass up for another. A waitress dressed in a handful of feathers and glass beads nodded in my direction, snagged the glass out of my hand, and headed for the bar.

"We're at another dead end," I said.

Marie gave me an inquisitive look.

"We should take a look at whatever's left of the stuff Remy bought from Mrs. Williams," I suggested.

Marie nodded. Her eyes were now fixed on Remy.

Remy was so cooperative that I dropped any residual suspicion I might have had that he was the blackmailer. He immediately gave us the keys to Williams' operation and directions on how to find his studio. He also warned us that there wasn't much left.

I wasn't too surprised to find that the Williams studio was in an otherwise abandoned office building. In fact, it occupied all of the second floor, but there was nothing on the first floor. What Williams had done for a living didn't exactly lend itself to having neighbors. The building itself was located in a run-down part of downtown. Amusingly, it wasn't too far from police headquarters.

It was well after dark by the time we arrived. Remy's keys got us both inside the building and into Williams' office and studio. The power was turned off and we used flashlights to search the area. Inside, nothing really stood out except for the sheer amount of open space. Remy had carefully removed anything suspicious. He'd destroyed all of the stock, sold off the cameras and other hardware, and abandoned everything else to rot. The name on the property records wasn't his. All Remy had to do was wait for the city to claim the building for back-taxes and condemn it.

But Remy had missed something - there was still some paperwork in Williams' office. Marie and I began emptying desk drawers and flipping through the contents of a half-empty filing cabinet.

"This doesn't look to promising," Marie said as she began sorting piles of folders. "Not unless you're interested in Williams' electrical and gas bills for the last ten years."

"Give it your best shot," I said. "I'll check out the rest of this floor."

By the time I got back to Marie, she had organized the paperwork into a neat grid on the office floor. But Marie seemed to be done with it. She was sitting at a steel desk, with an old hard-bound book open in front of her. There was a disgusted look on her face.

"What's wrong?" I asked. The look on Marie's face had me worried. It was like she had experienced an immensely personal betrayal.

We caught up to Fred just outside of his first-floor apartment. I was so pissed that I slapped him across the forehead.

"Ow!" he said, putting his hands over his forehead. Fred's eyes were wide with surprise.

"I don't believe you did that to us!" I yelled at him.

Fred blinked slowly. He still had his hands on his forehead.

"I don't..." he began confusedly. Then he ground to a flustered stop.

Marie grabbed me by the shoulders. And I immediately calmed down. She was right. Yes, this was frustrating as all hell, but... but...

But it was Fred. We should have expected the unexpected.

Like that he would tell us the truth.

The inside of Fred's apartment was cheerfully disorganized and furnished with crudely solid furniture made out of concrete blocks, railroad ties, and lengths of heavily reinforced four by fours. I was sitting in a massive chair that could probably only be moved with a pickup truck. Thanks to the relative sizes involved, I suppose I looked like a kid in an ordinary easy chair.

"I'm sorry I hit you," I told Fred. Actually, I felt pretty bad about that.

Marie was in the kitchen with Fred, helping him with the tea.

"That's okay, Dom!" Fred called. He came out of the kitchen carrying a tray, with Marie right behind him. A delicate ceramic teapot and some cups were piled on the tray. He put it down on a low table that consisted of raw lumber stacked on cinder blocks. Then Marie curled up next to me in the same chair - there was plenty of room - as Fred carefully filled a pair of cups for us.

Fred seemed happy to have guests. I guess he usually doesn't get too many.

I took a sip as soon as Fred handed me a cup. It was a herbal mixture, with orange and a hint of something like ginger. Actually, it was pretty good.

"This blend helps calm people down," Fred announced seriously as he collapsed into another chair. The floor shook from the impact. The teacup in Fred's hand looked like a thimble.

"I'm calm," I muttered to nobody in particular as I sipped some more tea.

Marie gave me a skeptical look and refilled my cup.

"What do you know?" Fred asked carefully, looking us over as he spoke.

"We thought it was you who was in the movie," Marie instantly responded. It was like she didn't trust me to say anything. "You've gotta understand, Fred, people lie to us all the time. Even the people who hire us. But you surprised us. It was just like you said - it was a friend who was in that movie."

A regretful look came over Fred's face. "Yeah. Yeah. I guess I shoulda figured you'd think that. How didja find out the truth?"

"Remy didn't clear out all of the paperwork in Williams' office," Marie replied. "He thought it was harmless stuff - just a lot of old bills and papers. But I found a ledger that Williams used to keep track of cash payments and receipts. It was coded - probably in case he ever got raided by the cops - and I suppose that's why Remy missed it. However, the code was a pretty simple substitution cipher, and it didn't take long to crack it. Among other things, the book listed payments that Williams made to the people who worked for him."

"It was Pietro," I said quietly. I guess it was mostly just to hear the words come out of my mouth. "It was Pietro who was in that movie."

Fred pursed his fleshy lips, and then nodded his head.

"It was a long time ago," he told me, "before you were in the Brotherhood."

The Brotherhood was what we used to call Pietro's gang - over my loud objections I might add.

"I was still in the middle of changing into what I am now," Fred continued. "Somedays I was fine. Other days, I couldn't even walk. Erik... well, I wasn't doing my job. I couldn't. He said I was useless and threw me out. Then Erik and Pietro had a big yelling match. That was when Pietro walked out on his dad."

Then Fred paused, lost in thought. Even after all that time, he was obviously still hurt by Erik's rejection. I've seen that before. Erik Lehnsherr has a way about him. He gets under people's skin - they want to please him.

Fred sighed and began speaking again. "It was just me and Pietro. A lot of the time I couldn't do much of anything. Pietro's powers were pretty iffy back then, too. We were sleeping in an empty building down by the docks and stealing food from a warehouse at the other end of the block. But then I started going through a real bad stretch. I was flat on my back for days on end and everything hurt. I figured I was dying. Pietro decided he had to come up with some cash for a doctor - or maybe he thought it would be for a funeral."

I put my cup down on the table with a thud.

"That's why you stick with Pietro," I said almost angrily - I'd always wondered. "It's not like he's a criminal genius and you're all rolling in the dough."

Fred just nodded.

"You any closer to figurin' out who's the blackmailer?" he asked.

"No," I growled in frustration.

"Maybe," Marie said at the same time. There was a calculating look in her eyes.

We were back in our office. Marie was at her desk and had Williams' ledger book open in front of her. She'd been taking notes from it ever since we got back. It was a long and slow process, and there wasn't a lot I could do to help except stay out of the way.

It was the wee hours of the morning when Marie finally closed the book and leaned back in her chair.

"Okay, I think I've got something," she said as she tiredly rubbed her eyes.

"What?" I asked.

"Throughout the book, every time Williams films one of his movies, there's a list of payments to the people involved. There's one payment that's always there - it goes to the initial 'S' - and it's a lot of money. Or at least that's the way it was until six months ago. Then Williams began making movies without them."

"Brett didn't have a crew," Mrs. Williams said with a puzzled frown. "As far as I know, he didn't work with anyone except his actors."

It was morning and we were back at the Williams abode. The cookies were chocolate-chip this time.

"The letter 'S' doesn't mean anything to you?" Marie pressed. "It's an initial, and your husband paid that person for years. Every time he made a movie, as a matter of fact."

Mrs. Williams just shrugged helplessly. "I'm sorry, girls. That just doesn't ring a bell."

I tried another tack. "About six months ago, did something seem to go wrong with your husband's business? Was he distracted or angry about something?"

Mrs. Williams thought that over. "You know... Brett was more and more unhappy. He began talking about retiring. It was the first time he ever said anything like that."

"Did he say why?"

"No. Wait... yes... there was something. He said that he was having problems with his actors. They weren't performing as well as he wanted."

We gave Lucy a call and she gave us her address. We met at her apartment. It wasn't fancy, but it was conservatively outfitted and meticulously clean.

"What's up?" Lucy said after she ushered us inside. On her own time, Lucy turned down the heat a few notches. She was wearing a completely ordinary dress and a pair of modest high-heels. She also didn't have on much in the way of makeup.

I didn't see any reason to beat around the bush. "When you made movies for Brett Williams, did he have any kind of crew?"

Lucy shook her head. "Nope. It was just him and the actors. He ran the camera, worked the lights, and did any set work that had to be done. Every now and then we'd pitch in if he needed a hand, but that didn't happen too often. Brett was big on making sure everything was ready to go when we showed up - we got paid by the hour, after all."

"There was nobody else there? Nobody at all?" Marie broke in.

Lucy shook her head again - and then paused. "Well... there was the doughnut girl."

"Doughnut girl?" Marie and I asked simultaneously.

"Yeah," Lucy said. "Brett always had coffee and doughnuts on the set. Stacey would bring them over. I figured she worked at a local diner or something."

"Did you ever catch her last name?"

"No, but... uhm..." then Lucy ground to an obviously embarrassed halt.

"What's wrong?" Marie asked.

Then Lucy rolled her eyes and made a decision to keep talking. "She's like you two. You know... she's different from most people. Sorry, I'm not sure how to say that."

"We aren't delicate about being mutants," I assured her. "Just tell us what you know."

Lucy seemed to accept that. "Stacey is kind of pretty in her way, but she has light orange skin and scales. The scales run up her neck and around the sides of her face. You can't see them unless the light hits her just right. She's also got this dark ridge over her eyes and framing the sides of her face. And her eyes are weird - green, but the pupils are slits."

Marie and I looked at each other. That wasn't ringing any bells, but there are a lot of mutants in this town. Given Lucy's description, if we'd ever met Stacey we certainly would have remembered her.

"You ever talk to her about anything?" I asked.

Lucy shrugged, "Just small-talk about work and weather. She seemed like an okay kid."

"She ever say anything about what you were doing?" Marie asked.

Lucy very definitely shook her head. "Nah - and I got to admit that was maybe a little surprising. One day she showed up late. We already had our clothes off and I was fluffing the guys. She didn't even blink an eye. Just started pouring coffee and handing around the box of doughnuts. She handed me a coffee while I was on my knees in front of a guy."

"Any else about her that stuck out?"

"She was the touchy-feely kind of friendly," Lucy replied immediately. "She liked to shake hands, kiss you on the cheek, and touch you on the hands or shoulders while you were talking. I figured it just meant she was lonely, or maybe just came from somewhere where that was okay. I once told her that she should be careful about doing that sort of thing with guys - they might misunderstand - but she just laughed it off."

"Did she and Brett ever talk to each other?" I continued.

"Some... not much," Lucy responded. Then she frowned.

"What?" I asked.

"You know, now that I think about it... there was something odd," Lucy began slowly. "One day, I was coming out of the bathroom and walked right into a talk that Brett and Stacey were having. Brett was saying something that didn't make much sense. He said that we were going to have a long day and Stacey should make sure that everyone got a double dose. At the time, I figured he was just talking about coffee, but it just sounded strange."

I glanced at Marie, she had the same look of sudden suspicion on her face that I imagine I did.

"Hey, sweetheart," Lucy purred at Jean Grey.

Jean gave Lucy a politely amused look. I suppose if you look like Jean, you spend a lot of time warding off hopeful pursuers.

"I remember you," Jean said quietly.

"I hope so," Lucy responded with a big and slightly predatory grin.

We were in a private study room of the woman's hall at the University. It was finals week and the only way Jean could fit us into her schedule was to meet us there.

"We need to know if anyone's tampered with Lucy," I said.

"Too late for that," Lucy chuckled. Marie barely managed to stifle a laugh. Around Jean, Lucy was in full-tart mode.

"It might have been a few years back," I added.

Jean gave me a doubtful look. "That's a long time to look for signs of psychic influence."

"Just give it your best shot," I replied with a shrug. Jean consults for us. She has rules when and how she'll use her powers, but she's always helpful if she thinks somebody has been messed with psychically.

"I'll have to touch you," Jean told Lucy.

"Go ahead," Lucy replied, obviously amused by Jean's hesitancy. "Just remember that I might decide to touch back."

Jean was trying to keep a straight face as she reached over and put the palm of her hand on Lucy's forehead. It was an oddly motherly gesture.

Lucy froze. Her eyes were suddenly blank. Marie and I caught her before she fell.

Then Jean's face suddenly blushed deep red.

Oops.

Marie winced. "Maybe we should have told Jean what she might find in Lucy's head," she said to me.

"Sorry about that," I said to Jean. "I should have warned you." It was the second time I'd apologized.

Lucy was curled up in a nearby chair, her head in her arms and her feet tucked underneath her body, dozing peacefully. She looked at peace.

Jean gave me a long, level, look. "Stop apologizing, Dom! I was just surprised. And you're right, Lucy has been influenced. Multiple times as a matter of fact."

"Is she in any kind of danger?" Marie asked quickly.

Jean looked at Marie and frowned, obviously not sure how to answer.

"What happened?" I asked.

"I think it was pheromonic behavior modification," Jean replied distractedly.

I had no idea what 'pheromonic' meant. "So what did it do to her?"

Jean was beginning to look embarrassed again. How a woman who sleeps with Emma Frost can still hold onto the slightest trace of feminine modesty is beyond me.

"It had a powerful hormonal effect on Lucy," Jean answered. "It made her into an... enthusiastic performer... in those movies."

"So Stacey is a psychic?" Marie asked.

Jean looked doubtful. "Not quite. What happened to Lucy is chemical-based - it's a part of this Stacey woman's personal scent and touch. I think she has a very simple, but powerful, talent that's focused around one thing."

"She makes people horny?" I said, trying to control the skepticism in my voice.

"Really horny," Jean confirmed.

Marie looked at me. "You said one of the reason's Williams' films were considered so good was because of the great job his actors did."

I nodded. "And now we know how he got such good performances out of them."

I looked back at Jean. She was studying the sleeping Lucy. I could tell by the look in Jean's eyes that something was really bothering her.

"What's wrong, Jean?" I asked.

Jean looked at me, her green eyes serious and troubled. "Lucy was sixteen when she began making those movies. The experience made a terrific impression on her. It changed her. It modified her opinion of herself - and the way she acts and thinks."

I didn't say anything. I didn't like the implications.

Marie hesitated before responding. "I think I see what you're saying."

Jean shook her head. "Lucy made the switch from nudie movies to actual sex movies after the first time she met Stacey."

I let out a low whistle.

Jean nodded. "But even after she left, Lucy went to work as a different kind of sexual performer. I've been inside Lucy's mind, Dom. She really can't conceive of any other way to live."

"She's not the first woman - or man - to make a living with their bodies," I pointed out.

Jean nodded. "But Lucy didn't exactly make a choice. Instead, it was mostly made for her by someone else."

"Jean..." Marie said cautiously. "What are you going to do?"

Jean looked at Lucy for a long moment.

"I don't know," Jean said softly - almost as if she were talking to herself. "I'm not sure what's right or wrong here."

There was a long, nervous, silence.

"Jean," I spoke up quietly. "Marie and I are gonna take Lucy home. Otherwise... well, let's take our time and think this over before we do anything else."

Jean nodded. Her eyes were still distant and troubled.

Jean was still considering her options as we snuck Lucy out the back of the student center. Lucy had been knocked for a loop by her session with Jean and was barely able to keep on her feet. Marie and I were on either side of Lucy, holding her upright. Anyone seeing us would have assumed that she was drunk. Since the last thing I wanted was to have a run-in with some college cops, we did our best to keep out of sight.

Fortunately, the car was parked nearby, in a small lot that was concealed by a row of meticulously trimmed trees. The fact it was finals week also worked in our favor. There weren't too many students wandering around - everyone was hitting the books instead.

Marie was steadying Lucy as I opened the back door of the car. I swear, I just looked away for a second. But Lucy was a fast operator.

"Lucy... cut it out," I heard Marie say gently.

Looking over my shoulder, I saw that Lucy had been busy. Marie's jacket was open and her blouse partially unbuttoned. Marie was trying to keep Lucy from falling on her ass while simultaneously preventing Lucy from removing her shirt.

Then Lucy giggled and leaned forward. Marie tried to turn away, but Lucy grabbed her by the chin and turned her face forward. Their lips collided. Marie stiffened... and then relaxed and used to opportunity to guide Lucy back towards the car.

"Lesss'us go back to Jeanie," Lucy slurred at Marie once they broke apart. "We'll have a lil' fun."

I took Lucy firmly by the arms and pivoted her away from Marie and towards the back of the car.

"You too..." Lucy added dreamily. "Y'r not as pretty as y'r friends, but y'll do..."

"How could I resist a smooth line like that?" I asked Lucy as I stuffed her into the back seat. The amount of squeezing, stroking, fondling, and licking I endured in the process was amazing. Lucy had a two-handed grip on my ass and a tongue in my ear by the time Marie finally grabbed me by the back of my collar and yanked me loose.

"Ya'know... ya gotta butt kinda like some guys," Lucy called out to me just before Marie slammed the door shut. "Nis'an' hard..."

Marie and I got in the front of the car, but halfway back to Lucy's place, Marie had to jump in the back after Lucy stripped naked and began mooning passing cars.

Lucy was asleep again by the time we got her home. We put her to bed, and then more-or-less fled the scene.

Back at the office, I called Remy and told him not to expect Lucy to show up at work that night. There was a long pause, and then Remy accepted what I'd said without any comment.

Then Marie and I took turns calling every contact we had. We were asking around about a mutant woman named Stacey.

Honestly, we should have known to call Hank first.

Hank McCoy is a big bear of a guy who's the number two in charge of the biggest gang in town. And although he doesn't look it, he's incredibly smart. It was after business hours when we caught up to Hank at his place. He was dressed in a tux - which was a sight worth seeing.

"Funeral or a wedding?" I asked curiously as I examined his togs. It wasn't the right time of day for either.

"The opera," Hank replied with a pained expression.

I nodded doubtfully. Marie just gave me an exasperated look.

"What can you tell us about this Stacey girl?" I asked.

Hank was holding a top hat - no, I'm not kidding. He rotated the brim in his hands thoughtfully before he replied.

"She's a small timer. Used to work as a hooker, but got out of the life a few years ago. However, she sticks out in a crowd and I hear things about her every now and then."

"What kind of things?"

"She has a nice place, drives a new car, eats in fancy places, buys high-end booze, and doesn't seem to have a job. But she's not associated with any of the local gangs as either a member, associate, or a dues-paying independent. I always figured she had a sugar-daddy."

"She might be in the blackmail business," I said.

Hank nodded. "I wouldn't be surprised. She might know a lot of secrets - and from what I hear, she's got a vicious streak."

"Where's she live?" Marie asked.

Hank gave us a long look. Then he reeled off an address. With anyone else, the fact he had that information so readily available would have been suspicious, but Hank has an incredible memory.

"What do you know about her powers?" I asked.

Hank let out a barking laugh. "She's apparently the best lay in the world. Our tame mad-scientist says there's something about the chemistry of her scent and touch. She can rev your engine like nobody else. She used to get top dollar for that."

"Anything else?" Marie added.

"Don't underestimate her in a fight," Hank said. "According to what I've heard, she's really fast and can both take and hand out a punch."

Marie and I have learned the hard way to not directly take on people who can screw with your mind.

"Everyone says she's not a psychic," Marie said thoughtfully. "Her power is about body chemistry."

"That helps," I agreed, "but we'll still want backup from someone who can counter whatever she might throw at us."

We were home and in bed. Marie was wearing a pair of pajama tops. I was wearing the bottoms. Marie is pretty adamant about having access to my breasts when we're in bed.

"Give Jean a call," Marie suggested. "See what time she's free tomorrow."

That made a lot of sense.

"Hiring Jean as a part-timer is one of the best ideas you've ever had," I said as I reached for the phone. Among other things, that means I don't have to ask favors from Emma. I owe her too many as is. And I dread the day she calls them in.

Jean picked up immediately.

"Hi, Jean, it's Dom," I said. "Oops."

The 'oops' was because as soon as I as I started talking to Jean, Marie threw the covers back and yanked off my pajama bottoms. They went flying across the room, through the bedroom door, and out into the hallway.

"What's up?" Jean asked.

"Uhm," I said as I tried to keep my legs together. But Marie is a lot stronger than she looks. "We're planning on having a talk with Stacey tomorrow. It would help if you could run interference for us."

"Sure. I've got an oral exam in the morning. I should be done by ten."

By then I'd lost the war south of my then nonexistent belt buckle and Marie had me spread wide open. Marie was laying between my legs, her bare feet up in the air and crossed at the ankles as she gave me her own version of an oral exam.

"That's... GREAT! I mean... uhm... we'll-pick-you-up-after-ten!"

"She's going down on you, isn't she?" Jean asked in a resigned tone.

My eyes were clenched shut and I had a two-handed death-grip on the phone. "Yes!"

Jean sighed. "You know, I'm in a bit of a quandary, Dom. On one hand, a proper lady should be offended at being made a part of such licentious behavior and hang up the phone."

"Yes!"

"On the other hand," Jean continued. "You two are my friends, and I should do everything I can to help my friends."

"Yes!"

"So tell you what, Dom - let me give you a detailed description of what Emma and I did last weekend. I mean, that's just girl-talk. I'm certainly not involving myself in anything untoward by telling you that. Right?"

"Yes!"

"Well, Emma and I were at a party and ran into two very pretty girls from the Japanese embassy. They said they were secretaries and translators, but they're actually spies, of course. They're from a branch of the Black Ocean society that's specially trained to use sex to get useful information from important foreigners. They've had their eye on Emma for a couple of months now, and..."

Yes.

Oh, yes.

The next morning, Marie and I drove to the university and picked up Jean. As always, when she was on campus, Jean was dressed conservatively. Most people would have mistaken her for a particularly good-looking secretary.

"How was your last test?" I asked her as she jumped into the back-seat. Marie leaned back over the front-seat and kissed Jean on the cheek.

Jean kissed Marie back and said, "Not bad, but there was a blackboard problem that I couldn't figure out. I'm okay at physics, but I'm not good at it."

I shrugged, "You've got to be better at it than me. I barely finished high-school."

"Fortunately, I went to the best schools Mississippi had to offer," Marie chimed in cheerfully. "On good days, I can even count to twelve without taking off my shoes."

I think one of the things Marie admires about Jean is that she's going to college. Marie is pretty sure she missed out on something by not getting much of an education. And she's scared at the thought of going back to school. Which is just silly - Marie is one of the smartest people I know.

"I'm not sure if I believe the part about eating sushi off the naked body of that Japanese spy," I suddenly said to Jean.

Jean smiled and held up a hand as if she were taking an oath on the Bible. "It's the God's honest truth, Dom."

"What?" Marie asked in confusion.

Stacey did live in a pretty up-scale place. Not the Emma-level of nice, but still fancy. In fact, we weren't that far from the building where Emma and Jean lived.

Jean did what she does and we just walked past the doorman. He simply didn't see us. I did a quick, over-the-shoulder, check of his logbook. Stacey wasn't listed as having left the building. I wonder how many of the very well-off realize that their comings and goings are so closely tracked? The people they probably can't help but think of as 'inferiors' know a lot more about their 'betters' than those 'betters' might find comfortable.

"I'll go in," I told Jean and Marie as we rode the elevator to the tenth floor. "You wait at the end of the hall."

*Right* Jean said as she kicked on psychic link with me.

"Okay," Marie said doubtfully. She doesn't like being separated from me when we're on a case. To be fair, the last time we did that, it hadn't gone well for me.

Jean and Emma stayed near the elevators as I walked down the hallway, checking door numbers.

I stopped at Stacey's door and glanced back towards Jean and Marie.

*Somebody's home,* Jean 'said' to me. *I can detect two people. Both female. I'm not going any deeper than that right now. We don't know the extent of Stacey's powers - she might be able to sense me.*

What Jean didn't say was that she had rules. She doesn't go into people's minds unless it was absolutely necessary. Influencing a doorman not to see us is okay. Scanning for somebody's presence was acceptable. A scan of surface thoughts to see if someone was telling the truth was also fine. But diving hip-deep in the loves, hates, fears, and shames of another person's mind was something else. Jean once told me that part of the reason Emma is the way she is because she's too free with her powers. Jean is trying to be more careful.

I nodded - even though that wasn't necessary - and pressed the door buzzer.

Stacey answered the door.

At a casual glance, you might think Stacey was a pretty twenty-something with exotic makeup and unfashionably short hair. Face-to-face in the doorway, I could see that she was a mutant. The back light of the open windows in her apartment made the fine scales on the side of her neck and cheeks stand out. And her dark-slitted green eyes were actually quite attractive in their odd way.

"Hi," I said as I flashed the leather case that held my PI license. "My name's Domino. I'm a private eye. I was wondering if we could talk?"

Stacey frowned. "How did you get up here? The doorman didn't call me."

"I snuck past him," I said neutrally. "It's not his fault. I'm pretty good at it."

"I don't have time to..." she began irritably.

"It's about Brett Williams and the work you used to do for him," I interrupted.

Stacey gave me a long look. Then she stepped away from the door.

"Come in," she said.

The interior of the apartment was expensively decorated, but was rather scattershot in terms of style. I've seen that before. Mobsters and businessmen who are born poor, but eventually find themselves with a lot of money tend to surround themselves with unrelated, but expensive, stuff that isn't always in the best of taste.

Except for us, there was nobody else in the living room.

*The second woman is in the bedroom - off to your left,* Jean sent to me.

"What do you want?" Stacey asked. Her body language was interesting. It was relaxed, but ready. And the distance between us was carefully calculated to let her get physical if necessary. Violence was an option to her.

No, I'm not a psychic, but I speak the language of fighting pretty well.

"We know about your power, Stacey," I told her - slightly emphasizing the word 'we'. "We know that you used to work for Brett Williams, giving his actors a push that made them do a better job in front of the camera."

Stacey absorbed that silently, her eyes meeting mine.

I felt a sudden rush of sympathy for Stacey. Despite her quirky looks, she was so pretty and sexy and I was about to make things hard for her. I wanted to reach out and touch her...

Oh.

*She's influencing you,* Jean sent.

*I know,* I sent back. Whatever Stacey was doing, it was potent. I knew what was happening and it was still getting to me.

*Don't let her touch you.*

"Cut it out, Stacey," I said levelly, taking a step back and shifting my jacket open so she could catch a glimpse of my shoulder holster.

Stacey blinked in surprise.

"You're not my type," I added coldly. Which was a lie. Right then, she was definitely my type.

"What do you want?" Stacey asked. She was obviously off-balance.

"Somebody is using Brett's work to blackmail people," I responded. "Do you know anything about that?"

One problem with having powers is that you can rely too much on them. Stacey wasn't used to people knowing what she was doing to them and successfully ignoring it. She was used to being in control. And she was having problems dealing with a situation when she couldn't power her way through it.

And the expression on Stacey's face told me everything I needed to know.

"I'm not the cops, Stacey," I said softly. "I've been hired to deal with one particular problem. Let's settle that peaceably and I'll leave. You've done it before. You can do it again."

I wasn't happy about what I'd just said, but it was true. Fred was our client and we owed him a resolution before anything else. I wasn't here to get in a fight with Stacey. Later on I would figure out what to do about the rest of Stacey's blackmail racket. Right then I had to protect the interests of my client.

A mental image of Jean and Marie hurrying down the hall came to me. *Trouble. The other woman's on the move,* Jean warned.

Moving fast, I stepped further back and put a hand under my jacket and on my semi-automatic.

The bedroom door swung open. A tall and beautiful redhead was standing on the other side. And she was dressed all in red - from her shoes to her hat. I didn't recognize her, but there was something about her face...

"Who are you?" I asked, slightly shifting my posture so I was more focused on the redhead.

Stacey was frozen. "Don't hurt her," she said anxiously to me.

Behind me, the apartment door opened. Marie and Jean were right behind me.

The lady in red smiled. That was amazing and scary at the same time.

"My name is Wanda Maximoff," she said, as if that explained everything in the world.

Then Wanda made a gesture with her hand and everything exploded around us in a whirlwind of debris. I was thrown backward, slamming against the door-frame and then collapsing to the floor. I painfully tried to get to my feet, but everything seemed peculiarly hazy and out-of-whack. My sense of balance was way off and my eyes refused to focus.

Not able to see clearly, I fumbled for my gun. But then somebody pulled my hand away and yanked my automatic out of its shoulder-holster. I heard a clatter as it was thrown across the room.

"We need to get out of here!" Wanda said urgently. Her voice had lost its previously mature aspect and was now that of a scared girl.

"That's okay, sweetie," I heard Stacey say reassuringly. "I'll give them something to keep them busy."

Somebody touched me on the back of my neck. And then everything seemed to tilt and become even hazier. Something that I can only describe as boundless, dizzying, lust poured through me.

In a daze, I whispered a woman's name.

I woke up in a comfortable bed. It was morning.

The bed I was in wasn't the one back at the apartment that Marie and I share. However, I knew whose bed it was.

The only thing covering me was a sheet and I wasn't wearing anything underneath it. Jean was curled next to me, her head on my shoulder and a warm hand on my stomach. Marie was on the other side of Jean, spooned up against her. Marie is a tall girl, she made a good bigger spoon for Jean.

A woman was sitting in a chair next to the bed. She was wearing a short robe of expensive, transparent silk that she hadn't bothered to tie shut. Her bare feet were propped up on the corner of the bed, crossed at the ankles. I don't know why I noticed it, but she'd had a recent pedicure.

There was a bottle and two glasses on the nightstand. One of the glasses was half-full. The woman poured a drink into the other glass and handed it to me. I sat up slowly, carefully untangling myself from Jean as I did. There was a moment when I couldn't make up my mind if I should keep the sheet wrapped around my upper body. I'm far from being a blushing maiden, but this situation was different.

In the end, I let the sheet fall. After all, it wasn't like my body was a stranger to anyone in the bedroom.

"I can tell that you're confused," Emma Frost asked me. "How much do you remember?"

I winced. "Bits and pieces," I said. Actually, most of what I could remember involved bare skin. Lots and lots of bare, feminine, skin.

Still asleep, Jean noticed that I had moved out of contact with her. She shifted towards me, rested her head on my midsection, and then casually reached up and squeezed one of my breasts. A long-nailed thumb flicked one of my nipples. I grimaced. My nipples were a little sore. They'd seen a lot of action last night.

Emma was obviously trying not to smile. "Do you want me to leave?" she asked.

I shook my head.

"May I join you?" she asked. By now she was definitely smiling.

"It's your bed," I pointed out tiredly. There was not point in protesting about that sort of thing.

Emma stood up and there was a spectacular moment when she ditched her robe. Then she slid into bed next to me.

So there I was, sandwiched between a naked Emma Frost and an equally naked Jean Grey. And my konked-out girlfriend was laying less than a yard away, a blissfully peaceful look on her sleeping face.

Emma made herself comfortable, which involved pressing a lot of her long, warm, and bare body against mine. She had her head propped up in one hand and was examining the side of my face. Her other hand was roaming up and down my thigh, her long fingers splayed open, as if to touch as much of me as possible.

"Do you want me to tell you what happened?" she asked.

For a moment, I seriously considered getting out of the bed and running away.

"Go ahead," I finally replied. I had to face the situation sooner or later.

"So there I was," Emma began thoughtfully. "Having a quiet evening at home, baking cookies for the poor kids down at the orphanage, planning my next church social, and generally thinking nothing but purely virtuous and completely heterosexual thoughts. And then a trio of sexy and horny hellcats invaded my home, wickedly intent on defiling my quivering flesh. They undressed me in the living room and did all sorts of degrading, immoral, and indecent things to me - and to each other - on the floor, the couch, the coffee table, the piano, the fireplace mantel, and the balcony. And then they dragged me into the bedroom and things became very serious."

I let out a long sigh and closed my eyes. I made a "stop" gesture with my hand.

It was all coming back to me.

But Emma told me the rest of the story anyway. All of it.

Yikes.

Jean woke. And then Marie. And then we had the most awkward half-hour in the history of time. Except for Emma, of course. She was positively glowing with happiness.

She helped Marie and I get dressed and then gave us each a long goodbye kiss.

Meanwhile, Jean hid in the bathroom.

The car was illegally parked and its windshield was covered with tickets. I was surprised it hadn't been towed. It also had a few dents. Jean and Marie had insisted on doing all sorts of things to me while I was trying to drive. We'd sort of ricocheted our way from Stacey's place to Emma's.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Marie said after we got in.

I shook my head.

"Well, I do," she said as she gave me a determined look. "I have some questions."

I hesitated. "Well... okay."

Then Marie paused before going on. "Did I spank Emma?"

"Yes."

"Did she spank me?"

"Twice."

"Did Jean and I really do that thing on the balcony - where people in the building across the street were cheering and yelling suggestions?"

"That happened."

"Do Emma and Jean really own a two-headed dildo they call 'Scott'?"

"Yes."

Then Marie nervously licked her lips and hesitantly described something that involved all four of us in a complex formation on Emma's bed.

"That happened," I answered, "but we switched positions a lot."

Marie stopped asking questions.

We didn't go back to our apartment. And we didn't go back to the office.

"Call me silly," Marie told me, "but I don't think I can look Sooraya in the eyes right now."

I nodded. "Yeah. I know what you mean."

"But we do have a new lead," Marie suggested.

"Wanda Maximoff," I agreed. "Okay, who would know the details about the Lehnsherr-Maximoff family tree?"

Marie shook my head, "We obviously can't talk to either Erik or Pietro."

"That's right, but who knows more about Pietro than anyone else in the world?"

"Oh... yeah," Marie responded after a moment of thought.

Mortimer Toynbee is an ugly, short, low-powered, mutant who also happens to be Pietro Maximoff's main squeeze. He has a small apartment in one of the city's less desirable neighborhoods. He and Pietro have been together for a long time. Once, after Pietro and I'd had more than a few drinks, I asked Pietro why he stayed with Mortimer. It turns out there isn't much of anything that Mortimer won't do in bed.

He's also talkative. Questioning Mortimer never requires much in the way of bribery or threats.

"Yeah, Pietro has a sister," Mortimer answered immediately. There was a touch of regret in his voice.

"I never knew that," I said carefully. That was bugging me. I know this town. I know Pietro and his gang. I know Erik Lehnsherr. Yet I'd never heard of Wanda Maximoff.

Mortimer looked to the heavens for strength. "Dear daddy makes everything crazy in that family. The way I heard it, the sister isn't right in the head, and has some nasty powers that she can't completely control. So Erik put her away in a rubber room - an expensive place that's supposed to know how to deal with our kind. And since Erik and Pietro don't like to talk about her, most people don't know she exists."

And since Lehnsherr didn't like to talk about his daughter, most people who knew about her had the common sense to keep their traps shut. It was a good thing we were talking to someone who didn't have a lot of common sense.

"How's Pietro get along with her?" Marie asked.

"He doesn't," Mortimer grunted. "They haven't seen each other since they were kids. Yeah, Pietro feels sorry for her, but he doesn't really know her."

"Does he know that she's in town?" I asked.

Mortimer laughed grimly. "If he does, he hasn't said anything about it to me."

The public health workers in this town are woefully underpaid. One of the guys in the Mental Hygiene department broke a lot of rules in exchange for some pathetically minor financial consideration.

Within a few hours, I was looking at a file.

"Wendy Maximillian," I read aloud.

"Wow," Marie said in disgust. "Erik can be such a criminal mastermind sometimes."

"She was committed to something called 'the Dunwich Home for Disturbed Young Women' about ten years back," I continued. "And she's supposedly still there."

Marie frowned and looked over my shoulder. Her hair brushed the side of my face and her scent washed over me. She'd been doing little things like that ever since the night before. I guess she was letting me know that she wasn't turning away from me.

I was grateful.

"Maybe this file is out of date?" she suggested.

"Maybe," I said as I reached up and ran a finger through that white streak in her hair. That made her smile. "Or maybe Erik doesn't want anyone to know that she's loose."

"Anything useful here?" Marie said as she picked up the file and flipped through it.

"Nothing yet," I said with a frown as I scanned a page.

"Wait... here's something," Marie said suddenly, handing me a piece of paper. It was one of the half-dozen forms that Erik had filed in order to commit Wanda. One of Marie's long fingernails was pointing to something. It was an address. The place where the Lehnsherr's were living when Wanda was sent to the asylum.

"Erik faked her name. This could be fake as well," I said cautiously.

Marie shook her head. "Remember how, back when I worked for Logan, I used to talk to Erik regularly? He told me about the places where he used to live here in town. This one sounds right. And you're the one who told me how people can't quite resist their old homes. How big is that urge after ten years of living in an asylum?"

"It's worth a look," I said with a nod.

Jean met us in front of her apartment building. I'd been hesitant about calling her, but I didn't have a good argument when Marie told me that Jean now had just as much of a right to be involved in the case as we did.

I give Jean a lot of credit. She doesn't come from a rough-and-tumble background like me and Marie. A lot of gently-raised women in her position would have decided to forget that we existed and then made a point of never seeing us again. Instead, she was waiting for us outside the front door of her building when we drove up.

The doorman was talking to Jean. He had stars in his eyes and was trying to put the moves on her. Jean was being polite, but her body language was sending the message that she wasn't interested. I'll say it again, maybe it isn't a good thing to be as pretty as Jean Grey.

The doorman held the back door of the car open as Jean slipped inside.

An uncomfortable silence ensued. I pulled us away from the curb and drove down the street.

"We have to say something," Marie finally growled. She has a pretty good growl for a woman with her looks. I think all the time she spent with a fellow named Logan - he's this town's biggest crime boss - has something to do with it.

I couldn't think of anything to say. Apparently, neither could Jean.

A disgusted look appeared on Marie's face. "Okay, I'll start. Look, there's nobody in this car who hasn't seen the others naked and invoking the Lord's name in vain as they loudly climaxed. That's embarrassing, but we all damn well know that all Stacey really did was grab something that was already in us and give it a hard push."

I nodded as I watched Jean through the rear-view mirror. Jean also nodded.

Marie continued relentlessly, her eyes determined. "When you get down to it, the person in our little foursome who has the biggest right to be offended and angry is the woman we yanked into it. So tell me, Jean, how's Emma?"

A distinctly exasperated look appeared on Jean's face.

"She has this triumphant little smirk on her face that just won't go away. She's wandering around the apartment, humming to herself and singing scraps of opera. She ordered some very nice flowers for you two - they've probably been delivered to your office by now. And every time I pass within range, she fondles and kisses me."

"There's a woman who's obviously deep in the throes of remorse," I suggested thoughtfully.

Jean's eyes met mine in the mirror. "One of the reasons I'm out with you guys is because all of the kissy-touchy-happy stuff is driving me crazy. When Emma is like that, a little goes a long way."

"You know, of the four of us, Emma and I are the ones who aren't exactly friends," Marie continued relentlessly. "And she and I spent a lot of yesterday exploring each other's caves. If we can live with that, then what's the problem with you two?"

"'Exploring each other's caves?'" Jean repeated with wide eyes. There was something like shocked amazement in her voice.

I just shook my head in disbelief. Marie does have an ability to put things bluntly.

Marie gave Jean a smile that was all southern sassiness. "What's wrong, college-girl? Surprised that the hick from Mississippi can use metaphors?"

Jean covered her mouth with both hands as she began to laugh helplessly.

The old Lehnsherr place was a small and slightly run-down cottage in a neighborhood that was going to seed. It had the look of being older than the other houses on the street. There were no signs of activity.

"At least one of them is here," I said as we drove past.

Marie and Jean both looked at me in surprise.

I nodded towards a parked car. "That Buick with the cracked passenger side brake light? Yesterday, it was outside of Stacey's apartment building."

Then I glanced at Jean, "How's it look in there?"

Jean gave the house a long, searching, look. "They're both inside."

"Now what?" Marie asked.

There was a smile on my face that didn't really match how I was feeling. "Yesterday, they surprised us. Today, we surprise them."

I made a few calls from a phone-booth outside of a local bar. We needed a little help for what I had in mind.

There's a fellow named Mac who runs a newspaper-stand just across from our office. Mac used to do some questionable things for a living before he came up with enough cash to settle down. Among other things, he owns an interesting array of uniforms. And for five dollars, he's willing to dress up for us.

This time, Mac was dressed as an employee for the gas company. He was carrying a clipboard and a pencil when he knocked on the front-door of the cottage.

I was standing to one side of the door. Marie and Jean were on the other side.

The door had a window in it. I saw the curtain flicker as someone inside checked to see who was outside.

Then Stacey opened the door. There was a puzzled look on her face.

Mac stepped hastily out of the way as I grabbed Stacey by the front of her blouse and yanked her outside. She was still gaping in surprise when I hit her with a right cross that whipped her head to the side. Meanwhile, Marie and Jean entered the house. There was an almost immediate crash from inside and I heard a woman screech in outrage.

Stacey was a tough costumer. She recovered from my blow and threw a counter-punch. It was fast and strong, but I could tell that Stacey wasn't a trained fighter. She depended on her greater than normal strength and speed.

I slipped away from Stacey's punch and responded with a classic - a pair of left jabs followed by a right hook. She dodged the jabs, but didn't see the right coming. Stacey slammed against the side of the house, obviously stunned. I came in fast and landed a short, but powerful, punch to her midsection. That knocked the breath out of her and she slid down onto her ass.

Her leg sweep was a lot faster than I expected. It didn't knock me down, but it did put me off-balance. By then, Stacey had realized that she couldn't out-box me. She lunged towards me, trying to take me down at the knees. Instead, I slammed my right knee into her face. Her nose broke and blood started flowing down her face. She went to her hands and knees, but was still game. I landed a pair of punches as she tried to get to her feet. She went flat, and I didn't hesitate to soccer-kick her in the side of the head.

That finally put her out.

I pulled up the gasmask I was wearing, stepped well away from Stacey, and took a deep breath of fresh air. I hate the damn things, but if you're fighting someone whose power is based on scent, it's a good idea to wear one. Sooraya had given it to Mac and he'd brought it with him.

"You're a dirty fighter, Dom," Mac called from the sidewalk. I'd specifically ordered him to get out of the way once the fight started, and he'd done as he was told. It was then that I noticed that Mac had a snub-barreled .38 in his hand, but he was holding it in a way that made it inobvious if you weren't looking for a gun.

Not for the first time, I wondered exactly what Mac had done when he'd been on the wrong side of the law. That was the kind of move a hitman would know.

Keeping an eye on Stacey - I had the feeling that she might recover quickly - I peered around the edge of the front door.

Wanda was laying on the living room floor, out like a light. She had the look that comes with being knocked silly by Marie's power. Jean was standing nearby, nursing a set of bruised knuckles as she stared daggers at Wanda. Apparently Jean hadn't been able to resist landing a punch. I made a mental note to teach her how to throw one properly.

Marie was staring at Wanda as she spoke to me. "That was fast," she said.

I just shrugged. This time, we'd set the rules on how the fight was going to go. That made all the difference.

"What did you see inside Wanda's head?" I asked.

Marie and Jean looked at me simultaneously. They both looked disturbed - and concerned.

"She's a mess," Marie told me abruptly.

Jean frowned for a moment before replying. "It's like there's... static. Lots of static. Sometimes you can see her clearly through it. Other times, everything is flickering and unclear."

Okay, I had no clue what any of that meant, but it was obvious that Marie and Jean were worried.

We were back in Brett Williams' studio. It was nicely isolated and I didn't want anyone interrupting the talk we were about to have with Stacey.

Wanda surprised me by waking up first. Quick as a cat, she scrambled to her feet and jerked against the handcuffs that were keeping her attached to a radiator. The radiator shifted and creaked, and flakes of plaster flew from where the pipes met the wall, but it stayed in place.

The savage snarl on Wanda's face would have done credit to a tiger. Suddenly, I had a hand in my jacket and on my handgun. I didn't think it was possible for her to break loose, but...

Wanda scanned the three of us, glaring at us one by one. You could see a bottomless pit of hurt and crazy and anger in her eyes. She didn't like being chained down.

I'd searched Wanda when we got to the studio, making sure she wasn't carrying any weapons. The dark-red, primly-cut jacket she normally wore was hanging from a coat hook on the back of the office door. In her frantic jump to her feet, she'd lost the buttons to a cuff of her blouse. The cuff was riding up on her forearm and you could see neat rows of old needle tracks.

I looked back up to Wanda's face. So that was how that fine and respectable institute for 'disturbed young women' had kept Wanda under control.

Wanda made a gesture towards us with her hands - her fingers spread wide and the thumbs almost touching. And nothing happened. She blinked in surprise.

Around Wanda's neck was once of those fancy collars that Logan's gang uses. It shuts down most mutant powers. A while back, we'd paid Logan a pretty penny for a couple of them - and as far as we were concerned, they were worth every cent. I wasn't sure what Wanda had hit us with at Stacey's apartment, but I wasn't in a hurry to repeat the experience.

"Easy, sugar," Marie said calmly. "We don't mean you any harm. We want to talk to your friend."

Marie and Jean were sitting at the office desk. I was leaning against the same desk. We were warily watching our two prisoners.

Wanda didn't say anything. She just cocked her head and looked at Marie - like a dog catching a scent it didn't quite understand or like.

The noise woke Stacey. She blearily opened her eyes, and then slowly sat up, going into a cross-legged position. She was cuffed to the same radiator as Wanda. There was dried blood on her mouth, chin, and blouse. Both of her eyes had gone black - that happens when you have a broken nose.

Stacey recognized the studio of course. "Never thought I'd be here again," she said with a sigh.

Then Stacey reached over and touched Wanda's red-silk-clad calf. "It's okay, sweetie," she said quietly. "Sit down with me."

Wanda was still staring daggers at us, but she did as Stacey said. As Wanda sat down, Stacey noticed the collar that Wanda was wearing. Then she reached up and touched the one that was around her own neck.

"They shut down your powers," I informed her. Stacey and Wanda didn't say anything, but they both shifted nervously.

"Stacey," Wanda said wonderingly. "The noise in my head is gone."

Stacey seemed to think that over. Then she took Wanda by the hand and gripped it tight. "That's good, baby. Now let me talk with these ladies."

"You bet," I said with a shrug, "let's talk."

"You know what happened to you last night?" Stacey said carefully. "I can give you that - over and over again. Let us go and we can make a deal."

Now it was our turn to rustle and shift uneasily. I won't speak for Marie and Jean, but a part of me was more than a little tempted by what Stacey had just offered. It was the part of me located at the juncture of my thighs.

But unfortunately for Stacey, at the moment that part of me wasn't running things. At least not right at the moment...

"We went back to my place," Jean said sharply. "Then we jumped my girlfriend."

Stacey winced. "Oh. Uhm... yeah. That can happen. I mean... I could tell that the three of you all had a thing for each other - and that made it pretty easy to dope you up. But I figured you'd just stay in my apartment and have a party."

"Let me tell you something, sugar," Marie interjected coldly. "When I do it with someone, I'd rather it to be because I made the decision. Not because someone made it for me."

Stacey licked her lips and quickly changed tacks. "Look, you said this was about the blackmail, but I'm not doing that anymore! When LeBeau put out that word that it had to stop - that was when I knew I was in too deep! I gave up on it! I burned everything!"

Okay, that was obvious bullshit...

"She's telling the truth," Jean said suddenly. She was carefully studying Stacey's face.

"What?" Marie and I exclaimed simultaneously.

Then it hit me. I knew who was blackmailing Pietro.

I looked at Wanda and she looked back at me. And we saw the truth in each other.

"I hate him," Wanda said in the tiny voice. A pair of tears began trailing down her cheeks.

Stacey wrapped her free arm around Wanda.

"It's okay, it's okay," Stacey whispered over and over as she rocked Wanda back and forth.

I gave Wanda time to cry herself out.

"Where's the film?" I eventually asked her.

"In the attic of the house," she replied. She was sitting with her knees drawn up to her body and her arms wrapped around her legs. She looked miserable.

I looked at Jean and Marie. "Go get it. Take Wanda with you."

Marie unlocked Wanda's cuffs. Within a minute, they were gone. I heard the car start up and leave.

I gave Stacey a long look. "Okay," I began, "what's the deal with you and Wanda?"

Stacey had the look on her face of a person who was so used to lying that is was their preferred means of communication.

I slapped her. Hard.

"No bullshit!" I said coldly. Truth to tell, I didn't much like Stacey.

Stacey rubbed the side of her face and then snarled at me, "She's immune to what I do!"

My eyes went narrow. "I'm listening," I said.

"She's immune," Stacey continued in a quieter, but still defiant, tone. "And she stays with me because we're friends - not because she just wants to get me into bed."

Erik handled the news that his daughter was in town with his usual cold self-discipline. It made me wonder if he'd known all along, but had decided to let it alone as long as Wanda was safe.

He only really seemed surprised when I made my suggestion.

"You want me to hire someone who stole from her previous employer," Erik Lehnsherr said. He didn't sound angry or incredulous. He was just daring me to explain.

Stacey and I were in Erik's office. It was tastefully decorated in an Old World style. There were no obvious bodyguards present - which was rather scary in its own right. Erik Lehnsherr is a powerful man with a lot of enemies. And yet he doesn't bother with bodyguards.

Stacey was still wearing the marks from our fight. Her nose was taped and her eyes were still blackened. And she had the common sense to be scared.

But Stacey needed a job. And I'd made it clear to her that I wasn't going to let her run wild. Not if Wanda was going to stay with her.

"Yep," I said to Erik. "Of course, that also means I want you to hire the woman who took care of your daughter when she needed help. And who plans to continue taking care of her."

A long moment passed. Unspoken was the fact that Wanda utterly refused to have anything to do with her father or brother. The expression on Erik's face didn't change. He had the dead-eyed look of someone who was about to slit some throats.

Then Erik looked at Stacey. She swallowed hard and lifted her chin. Whether she knew it or not, that was a good move. Erik knows that bravery is not about the absence of fear. It's about overcoming fear. And he respects that when he sees it.

"I know I screwed up big time," Stacey said softly. "But I can bring something to the table. I can make a lot of money for you in exchange for a fair cut. Somebody else will be in charge of handling the cash."

"What are you offering?" Erik said flatly.

Stacey got to her feet and approached Erik's desk. She gave him a long look. Erik's return gaze would have done credit to a particularly intent man-eating shark.

Then Stacey reached over and touched Erik on the back of his hand. After a second, Stacey returned to her chair and waited silently.

Erik didn't appear to be even slightly affected by what Stacey had done, but then he glanced at me.

"I'll put her in the Hunt Club," Erik said, naming his highest-end bordello. "She won't be a prostitute - that would be asking for trouble. Instead, she will tend bar and generally help out around the place. And, of course, she will make things interesting for our customers. A number of rich and elderly men visit the Hunt Club. At that stage in life, a man can have problems performing. She can do something about that."

"Once the word gets out, that will be hell of a money maker," I said deliberately.

"And this woman will be under the direct supervision of the Hunt Club's manager," Logan added coldly.

I glanced at Stacey. "That would be dame named Rita. Her street name is Spiral. You've probably heard of her."

Stacey's eyes went wide.

"Just don't cross her and you'll be fine," I warned. "Piss her off and you'll wish you were dead."

I hoped Stacey believed what I was saying.

Marie and Wanda were waiting for us in my car. Wanda was still dressed all in red, but now a wide choker concealed the power-negating collar that was still around her neck. She and Wanda were watching the passers-by and making up stories about them. Wanda's eyes were wide with delight.

"He's a stern businessman," Marie said, making a gesture towards a well-dressed and formal-looking man who was crossing the street. "But he secretly likes to take bubble-baths with the same rubber duck he's had since he was a little boy."

Wanda giggled and pointed to a fit and rather tough-looking blonde who was at the same crosswalk. "She's a secret-agent for the government. She's the best person with a gun in her office and everyone calls her 'Princess Sureshot'."

In Wanda's lap was a folded up copy of the 'New York Times'. She'd spent the drive to Lehnsherr's office intently reading an article on the rise of Fascist movements in Europe. Wanda was like that, sliding back and forth between a little girl and a very serious woman. But Stacey swore that the collar was helping with Wanda's difficult spells. She was almost pathetically grateful when we decided to let Wanda keep it.

"Do you think Stacey will screw this up?" Marie asked me after we dropped them off.

I just shrugged. "It's up to her. Stacey's history says she will. But whenever I see her with Wanda..."

Marie glanced at Stacey and Wanda as they walked up the steps to their little house. They were holding hands and chattering like a pair of excited schoolgirls.

"Is it so damn wrong to want a happy ending?" Marie asked me, her eyes on Stacey and Wanda as they disappeared inside the door.

"No," I said wistfully.

We were back in Fred's apartment - not in an alleyway somewhere. I think the fact we'd already been to Fred's place had broken some kind of barrier with him. Now it was okay for us to see how a man lived who weighed over a quarter-ton.

"We had to watch enough of the film to make sure it was what we were looking for," I told him.

"I get that," Fred rumbled. We were sitting at the stack of railroad ties that was his kitchen table. This time the tea tasted of raspberries and lemon. It was fantastic and I'd made a point of getting the name of the brand from him.

"Then we burned the film," I added.

"Jean read Stacey and Wanda's minds and confirmed that everything's gone," Marie added.

Fred nodded. "So just what the heck happened?"

I began talking. "Stacey and Williams had an ongoing argument about how much he was paying her. She began filching some of his material and selling it on the side. Williams got suspicious and stopped doing business with her. In order to keep the money coming in, Stacey got into blackmail. She was actually pretty smart about it - she kept her demands reasonable and made it bearable for her victims. But then Remy found out that a bunch of his girls were being blackmailed, got pissed, and put out the word that it had to stop. Stacey then had an attack of extreme common sense and decided that the blackmail angle would eventually end with a bullet in her head. So she shut down her racket and destroyed everything - or so she thought."

Marie picked up the story. "By that time, Stacey had met Wanda and was taking care of her."

Fred frowned in confusion.

"Fred, you know as well as I do that the bad-guys aren't always bad, and the good-guys aren't always good," I said quietly.

Fred thought that over, then seemed to accept it.

Marie continued. "Anyway, Wanda is really pissed with her family. When she found out that Stacey had a film of Pietro dressed in a pony-boy outfit and servicing a bunch of stable-hands..."

Fred winced.

"...she saw it as an easy way to hurt at least one member of her family, while making some money on the deal," Marie finished quickly.

"Stacey and Wanda were hurting for cash by then," I interjected.

"So Wanda salvaged the movie from the fire and used it to blackmail Pietro," Marie finished.

For a long moment, Fred seemed lost in thought. Then he pulled his wallet out of a back pocket.

"Wadda I owe you?" he asked.

I named our normal fee for three days work - with a discount for the time lost while Marie and I were one half of an all-girl orgy. Fred emptied his wallet on the table. He was about two bucks short.

"Hold on," he said as he got up and grabbed a cookie jar from the kitchen counter. It rattled with the spare change he kept inside.

It took Fred three tries, but he eventually counted out the rest of what he owed us. I could tell it was on the tip of Marie's tongue to tell Fred to not worry about it, but I put my hand on hers and silently shook my head. After a moment's hesitation, she got it and kept silent.

Whatever else he might be, Fred Dukes was the kind of man who helped his friends and paid his debts.

We should respect that.

The flowers that Emma sent us were beautiful. Sooraya put them in a large vase and positioned it on a bookshelf so we could all glance up from our desks and see them.

At the moment, Sooraya was out on her lunch break while we kept an eye on Hassim. Lunch breaks were a new thing that she'd started doing just a few weeks ago. Before that, she usually had the Chinese place down on the corner deliver. She would eat at her desk.

Of course, what 'lunch break' actually meant was that she was spending a strenuously physical hour with Josh - her sort-of husband. She didn't know that we'd figured out that they were that kind of intimate again. Sooraya would be horribly embarrassed if she found out that we knew, so we played dumb.

"So what about us?" Marie asked suddenly. She always asks the hard questions. Maybe I'm braver when it comes to fighting and shooting and things like that, but Marie is braver with the things that really matter.

"Last I looked, we were fine," I answered cautiously.

"Where do Emma and Jean fit in?" Marie asked bluntly.

"I don't know," I told Marie.

Marie looked at me for a long moment before speaking again. "What happens if Emma calls and wants you to come over to her place tonight?"

"The answer is 'no'," I said. Which was the truth. Maybe it wasn't everything I wanted, but it was the truth.

Marie pursed her lips and nodded. "What if she wants both of us to come over?"

"Then I'll ask you what you want to do," I said. That was still the truth.

Marie smiled. "What if she and Jean want the four of us to take up where we left off?"

"Like I said: I'll ask you what you want to do."

Still the truth.

"So it's all up to me?" Marie asked in exasperation.

I stared at her seriously. "I won't do anything - anything at all - that'll risk screwing up the only thing that really matters to me. And that's you."

Suddenly, Marie was in my lap. She had my face cupped in her hands and I had firm grip on her waist. Our lips were locked together.

Off in his playpen, Hassim gurgled in either approval or amusement.

The phone rang. Marie broke away from me and smiled knowingly.

Then she picked up the phone and - without checking to see who it was - said, "Hello, Emma."