I didn’t get one good goddamn night of sleep.

Back at the office, the whiskey tasted like recycled cardboard and the cigarettes smelled like burned plastic. Nothing settled well, and once I’d finished the protein bar I dubbed supper, I tossed on the sofa for a half dozen hours in something that almost resembled sleep. An alert on the office screen blinked yellow with a message until I put my hat over it. In my groggy half-sleep I almost believed Trinity had a message for me, which was impossible because I was nobody.

When at last the thin specter of slumber finally closed my heavy eyes, a sound came at the door like a parade that was all drums and no musicians.

My eyes were barely open when the door crashed in. Sam and his two goons swept through like they owned the whole block. When my mouth opened to say something—I don’t even know what—Sam closed it with a quick slug from his ugly fist.

“You’ve done it this time, Demarco,” he said.

My jaw felt like a bruise on top of a bruise. I looked to his two goons, but they didn’t cut me any slack. “You’re welcome,” I muttered.

Sam hit me again. This time, his fist struck my solar plexus hard enough to knock the dumb retorts right out of me. “You know, if I was the boss, I’d do you right now. Bam. Brains on the wall.” He slugged me in the gut, but my breath was already gone so it didn’t really make me any worse. That’ll show him. “But the Saint wants to have a word with you first. Maybe he wants to have a personal talk before offing you.” He chuckled as if it were a joke.

I made the damn fool mistake of opening my mouth again, even though I didn’t have the breath to speak. He thumped me in the temple so hard little flashes of light danced around his lumpy face.

Maybe I’d sleep better if I didn’t sometimes wake up to shit like this.

Sam Wash had a killer’s look in his eye, and I didn’t feel comfortable testing it out. I dropped to me knees, palms flat on the floor. My head pinged with pain and my vision blurred, but I made like it was far worse. Like I couldn’t even stand.

“Get up,” Sam said, his voice dropping to a low rumble. He kicked my thigh with a sharp-toed boot. Damn, that was right where it was already bruised.

I nodded and got my feet under me, hitching forward like he’d really injured the leg. Maybe he had.

“Move.”

The two goons moved ahead of us and Sam gave me a shove from behind. Despite the pressure, I paused when I saw my broken door.

“I’ve got something to say.” My jaw hurt when I spoke.

He gave me another shove.

But I was ready for it. I spun and snatched his wrist before he could back away. I twisted and despite his solid muscle, he bent.

“Guys!” he shouted. “Get back in here!”

I spun Sam around so he’d be between me and his goons. It took a tremendous effort to keep the wrist lock tight. The man was stronger than anyone I’d ever fought, and even with my size and a good grip, he threatened to escape. The murder in his eyes turned from hate to cold, hard iron.

The two goons returned, looking at us like we were caged dogs.

I warned them off. “I said, I have something to say.”

For a dozen pounding heartbeats Sam didn’t respond, after another painful struggle to get free, he said, “What, then?”

“It’s just this: I can’t go with you. I’m really sorry.” When it became apparent he wasn’t going to take the bait, I continued. “You see, I have a visitor expected this morning.”

This got a sneer from Sam. “You have a lot of friends?”

“No, actually. Not many at all. That’s why this visitor is so important. You see, she’s a beautiful lady.”

Sam snorted. “What kind of lady visits a monster like you, upworlder?”

I looked past the two goons into the street beyond. In the darkness I could barely make out the shape of my rescuer. Beck cocked her two guns, each lazily aimed at a goon.

“We have you outnumbered,” I said.

Confusion twisted Sam’s face, so I twisted his arm even harder.

“Leave,” I said. “I’ll talk to Jerome when I’m ready.”

The goons disappeared into the night, and Sam finally relaxed against my grip. I let him go free, and he straightened up. Beck had both of her guns trained on him.

Sam’s was a dangerous man when his ego bled. I braced myself against another blow from his powerful fists, but he stood for several ragged breaths before opening his mouth to speak.

I interrupted, “You owe me for the door.”

His brow furrowed. “I’ll be back, Demarco.”

“That’s great. Pretty soon, I hope. A place like this place needs a good door to keep the riffraff out.”

Once Sam stalked off, Beck stepped over the remains of the door and holstered her two guns. One was a small caliber pistol, sleek and black. Military, probably. The second was a crimson-barreled plastic piece, fragile but still deadly. Her coat covered it before I could get a better look.

“Nice place you got here,” she said.

I propped the door so it mostly blocked the entrance to my office. “It’s not really my place. Ownership’s not really a privilege I have an abundance of these days.”

She gave me a wry look as we exited the building into the dim pre-dawn city. “Why is it I keep needing to rescue you?”

“How about that stipend?” I asked, holding my hand out.

She slapped a roll of dimes into it. “Any progress?”

“Feelers are out. On my way to collect right now.” I hoped. If Jason didn’t have anything for me it meant I was going to need to do some real work to catch up. “Care to join me?”

Beck looked for a minute like she was pondering the political machinations of a brilliant tactician. “You know,” she said finally, “I believe I would like to accompany you.”

“It’d be safer.”

“How so?”

“If I get the tar beaten out of me every time we meet up, then I’d just as soon stay together.”

“Who’s going to rescue you once I decide to kick your ass?”

Beck had parked her scooter a short distance away, and somehow the several thrashings I’d taken in the last twenty-four hours had relieved me of the pride that kept me from settling my bulk onto the back of it. We sped through morning traffic, spiraling downward through the morning mists. Cool morning breeze on my face woke me and helped clear the fog from my brain. By the time we finally arrived outside Rory’s Ramshackle, I had more than a few questions I didn’t dare ask.

For instance, why was Beck following me? How did she track me so that she knew exactly when to intervene and help? No way was that coincidence. The only real coincidences were bad ones, and her showing up at the right time didn’t fit.

Jason wasn’t working, but his father Rory was cleaning the bar. Rory was a caricature of his son, with the same swoop of hair, but with larger ears and a larger, knotty nose. He ignored us at first, and we watched as he scrubbed a sticky film from the fibersteel walls.

“Seems like a fella ought to make his son do work like that,” I said.

He looked up at me, spotted Beck, and broke into a broad grin. He stuck his hand out for a shake and she daintily took it. “Pleasure meeting you, ma’am,” he said. “This fella could use a lady like you around.”

She destroyed him with her charming smile, but said nothing.

“Jason leave anything for me?” I said. That’s me. All business. And I wonder why I don’t have any friends.

Rory crossed behind the bar and checked. He handed me a slip of paper. “The fool let a bunch of troublemakers in last night,” he said. “Had the blue all over the place.”

Police again. I hadn’t seen this much copper activity since right after the sugar riots. It reminded me of another question I couldn’t ask. Why were the police so lax about a known art thief’s widow docking at a Heavy port? Shouldn’t there at least be a detail tracking her? Shouldn’t they be tracing Beck?

Or did they think Trinity’s surveillance was enough?

Or did Beck have some way of avoiding notice. If she did, what did she need me for?

I glanced at the paper and stuffed it in a pocket. “What’s the blue looking for down this far? They’re a little low for their route, aren’t they?”

Rory waved away the idea like it was a fly. “Who ever knows what a blue man’s looking for. It’s never something good so good riddance if they stay away.”

“They sure leave a mess, though.”

“Something I’ve learned from owning this place for as long as I have,” Rory said. “I’d rather clean up a mess like this than deal with the fellas who make it.”

“Maybe I should try that sometime,” I said. “Seems like all I do is deal with people making messes.”

“From what I figure, you’re usually the one making the mess.” Rory went back to cleaning the wall.

“Where to, Demarco?” Beck said as I settled my weight onto the back of her scooter.

“Down. All the way. Nine layers of down till we meet the devil himself.”

“That’s where Maurice is?”

“If he’s anywhere at all.” She put on a burst of speed and I struggled to steady myself. The scooter wasn’t fast, but she drove it like a madwoman. “Either way, we’ll get some questions answered down there. It’s a liminal space, like the one between the airlocks and the stars.”

Of course, there were more questions I wasn’t ready to ask. One in particular came to me as we hit a hard corner and Beck’s coat flew up, exposing the plastic pistol she’d drawn against Sam’s goons. I wanted to know this answer more than anything since I’d woken up that morning, but it wasn’t anything I could bring myself to voice. Not yet, anyway.

Why was Charlotte Beck carrying Dr. Lawrence McCay’s crimson pistol?