“I thought there would be food,” I complained. “I’m hungry.”

Thack said to Daemon, “You’re not eating those, are you?”

Without waiting for an answer, he plucked a little bowl of nuts off Daemon’s end of the table and put it in front of me. The celebrity vampire, still red-eyed and pink-nosed, was sitting as far away from me as he could get while still remaining part of our merry little trio.

“I want dinner,” I said as I accepted the nuts. I had already eaten a bowl of pretzels.

“I need another cosmopolitan,” Thack said. “Where is that tastelessly dressed waitress of ours?”

Daemon, whose attention now seemed fully occupied with the vampire girl sitting on his lap, had chosen the venue for our evening out. We were in his (enviably luxurious) car by then, and Thack felt honor-bound to remain by his side until Uncle Peter called again. So when Daemon announced we were going to a club called the Vampire Cave (“where they love me”), we hadn’t put up nearly as much of a struggle as I now realized we should have put up.

For one thing, there was no food here other than generic bar snacks and, as was usually the case after a performance, I was ravenous. There were some choices on the specialty drinks menu which I might have found amusing under other circumstances, but all things considered, I just felt my gorge rise at the thought of drinking a Bloodsucker, Jugular Juicer, or Carotid Cooler. In any case, right after the show, I had swilled about onethird of a bottle of lukewarm champagne on an empty stomach, so I had decided I’d better stick to club soda here.

I was rethinking that decision at the moment, actually, since the Vampire Cave wasn’t sort of place where I particularly wanted to be sober, if I had to be here at all. Down a steep flight of steps, situated underneath a leather-gear novelty shop, this club was decorated pretty much as Thack had described. The customers were a cross-section of self-proclaimed vampires, vampire groupies, vampire lifestylers, psychic vampires, donors, and people hoping to (as Leischneudel would put it) meet a vampire. There were enough other customers dressed in ordinary street clothing that I didn’t look out of place (though Thack, in his Brooks Brothers suit, certainly did), but vampire-goth was the most prevalent style choice among the clientele.

Thack glanced at his watch. “You would think,” he said, “that these people might have some place else to be this late on a Sunday night.”

“Such as home in bed?” Which was where I wanted to be. I gave in briefly to fantasizing about eating my favorite Chinese carry-out food in bed while watching TV, and then sleeping undisturbed for at least eight hours.

“Do you suppose that vampire hunting is always this demeaning?” Thack wondered, as Daemon and Vampire Girl pawed each other at our table. Several people in flowing black capes greeted the two of them while walking past us. “Or are we just lucky?”

Daemon was obviously well-known here, and he had told us he’d been a regular at this club ever since coming to New York. A number of people had greeted him since our arrival a half hour ago. They spoke to him as friendly admirers, rather than with the hysterical adulation displayed by fans outside the theater. And the woman currently occupying his attention wasn’t even the first one to sit in his lap since we’d arrived; indeed, he seemed to have several friends-with-benefits among the club’s clientele tonight.

Nonetheless, I noticed he was also getting some censorious looks from this crowd. I wasn’t sure whether some of the people giving him dark glances thought he was a murderer, or whether they just thought he shouldn’t be out partying and pawing so soon after the murder, all things considered. (Or maybe they just didn’t like him bringing a scowling yuppie in a Brooks Brothers suit to the club, as well as a hungry actress who was eating all the bar snacks.)

When I used the ladies’ room a little while later, though, I discovered another possible reason for the chilly glances. While I was out of sight in one of the two wooden bathroom stalls, a couple of girls were touching up their elaborate makeup at the sink. I wound up hovering in my stall and listening with mild interest as they talked about how Daemon had “gone commercial” and “sold out.” He also gave people the wrong impression of vampires, they said, which was bad for the vampire community.

“I mean, most vampires don’t even drink blood at all,” one of the girls said. “But he makes it such a thing.”

“God, I know! And that whole ‘sunlight must not touch me’ attitude,” said the other girl. “Puh-lease. How corny can you get?” She suddenly inhaled sharply. “Oh!”

“What is it?”

“Mmm.” She gave an ecstatic little moan. “I’m getting a psychic embrace from Rafael.”

“Oh, wow.”

I flushed the toilet and exited my stall.

As I was returning to my table, I paused to give a little finger wave to half of my vampire posse. The four guys had met us outside the stage door and had insisted on following Daemon’s car here, riding on a couple of motorcycles, two men per bike. After we got here, Flame and Casper stayed outside with the bikes. Treat and Silent entered the club with us, though they sat unobtrusively at a separate table and didn’t intrude on our evening, such as it was.

Flame had instructed Treat and Silent, “Keep eyeballs on Miss Diamond at all times.”

The Vampire Cave was small enough that my halfposse could easily monitor my trips to the bathroom and the bar without even leaving their table. And, fortunately, I had managed to convince Silent that coming inside the ladies’ room with me would make the two of us much closer than we really wanted to be.

Daemon was canoodling with yet another goth girl when I sat back down at our table. I could tell from his unfocused, heavy-lidded eyes and slurred speech that he was very drunk by now. I gathered that, to top off the pleasures of my evening, my vampire host in this fine establishment had decided to go on a real bender.

Ignoring our companions, Thack said to me, “I mean it as an observation, not a criticism, when I say that, although you are normally an attractive woman, tonight you look like a boxer who recently lost a brutal match and you smell like a pharmacy. What on earth happened to you?”

I wearily recounted my misadventures with lust-maddened Janes.

Thack shook his head in disgust. “I should never have let you audition for this show. I had a bad feeling from the moment you told me about it.”

“Your bad feeling had nothing to do with the show,” I pointed out, “and everything to do with the chip on your shoulder about, er, cultural stereotypes.”

“But you insisted I get you the audition, and now look where we are,” he said grimly. “In a vampire nightclub with a drunken poseur who I fear may wind up having sex on our table before Uncle Peter calls me back.”

“Oh, come on, Thack, I’ve got a supporting role in a sold-out off-Broadway show. That’s a good thing.”

“Jane is not a part worthy of your talent, darling.”

“Speaking of which,” I said, “I need some auditions. This show closes in two weeks.”

“Oh!” He made a rueful face. “Sorry. I should have said something sooner. A murderous vampire menacing New York kind of distracted me.” Thack added wearily, “And talking to my relatives always rattles me.”

“Should have said what?” I prodded.

“I was going to tell you over dinner. I got you an audition for next week. It’s for another new play. Not a gothic revival this time.”

“Really?” When he nodded, smiling at me, I gave him a hug. “That’s great!”

“Geraldo will call you in a day or two with the details,” he said. Geraldo was Thack’s assistant. “And I’ve been talking with the Crime and Punishment people. They thought you did very well in D-Thirty, and they said you were really a good sport on the set. So they felt bad that they wound up having to cut your role so much in that episode. The upshot is they’d like you to come in soon and read for a guest spot on Criminal Motive.”

While The Dirty Thirty was the grittiest and most controversial series in C&P’s spin-off empire, Criminal Motive was considered the brainiest.

“Suddenly, I feel so much better! Good news is like an antidote,” I said cheerfully. “Now I can scarcely even tell that I was beaten almost to a pulp last night.”

“Did something happen?” Daemon asked us blearily.

“No, go back to your fondling,” I said to him. Then I smiled at Thack. “Now I can look forward to life after The Vampyre.”

Gesturing to my injuries, Thack said, “I’ll certainly be relieved when you’re done with this show. You look as if a third assault could put you in the hospital.”

“Fannish hysteria is a dangerous thing,” I noted. “And it’s not even as if they’re my fans.”

“Vampire hysteria is a dangerous thing,” said Thack. “I had to make my way through that crowd today to get to the theater. The effort made me better acquainted with Daemon’s fans than I had any desire to be. Which is how I know that, despite his being suspected of murdering his most recent pick-up, half the women in that crowd still want to sleep with him—as do some of the men. That doesn’t just run contrary to reason and good taste, it also defies any healthy sense of self-preservation.”

I thought back to something Leischneudel had said yesterday, on the way to work, about how the fans romanticized Lord Ruthven’s murder of his bride. “Maybe they think it would be worth dying to be possessed by Daemon in the final embrace.”

“Are you trying to make me nauseated?” Thack asked.

“Or maybe they fantasize that he’d turn them, and they’d become his undead true love.”

“I’m warning you, this evening has descended to such an unprecedented nadir that I am quite capable of tossing my cookies in public.” Thack glanced at our canoodling companions. “Possibly all over our preening pal and his giggly goth girlfriend.”

He’d spoken a little too loudly. The girl finally noticed us, and she looked offended. That was predictable, given what Thack had said; but I thought she could have easily avoided the insult by declining to give Daemon a lap dance in public.

“Who are your friends?” she asked him with a sour expression.

“Hmmm?” Daemon looked blearily at me. “I . . . work with her.” His gaze moved to Thack. “Who are you again?”

Thack asked me, “Should I risk a third cosmopolitan? The first two were pretty weak, after all.”

“I haven’t seen our waitress in ages,” I said.

“There is a sense in which that can only be a blessing.”

Goth girl stuck her tongue in Daemon’s ear, then said, “Why don’t you and I go back to your place and give your coffin a workout?” She uttered what I gathered she intended to be an alluringly wicked giggle.

“Oh, good God!” Thack exclaimed. “A coffin? A coffin?”

“Oops, I think the damn just burst,” I told the dreary couple.

“Is there no limit to your tasteless banality?” Thack cried.

“Oh, wait, you came with Esther, didn’t you?” Daemon said to Thack, as if starting to recognize him now.

“You sleep in a coffin?” Thack demanded.

“No, I don’t sleep in it,” said Daemon. “Do you have any idea how claus . . . claus . . .”

“Claustrophobic?” I guessed.

“Thank you.” Daemon nodded at me, then concluded, “How what-she-said a coffin is? Really tight squeeze, man.”

“Not to mention that it’s intended for the departed and should therefore be treated with respect. Not used as a PR gimmick, let alone as a venue for—for . . .” Thack concluded with discreet disdain, “Fun and games.”

The girl looked at Thack’s well-tailored suit, and her puzzled expression cleared. “Oh, I get it! You’re an undertaker?”

“Vampires do not sleep in coffins,” Thack said tersely.

“I remember now,” Daemon said to Thack. “You were in the car with us, right?”

“Vampires particularly do not sleep in coffins filled with the soil of their native land,” Thack said in aggravation, getting it all off his chest now. “If we have any attachment to our native soil, it’s purely sentimental! Though, I, for one, was delighted to shake the dust of Wisconsin off my feet. But I had family issues, so that’s beside the point.”

“What is the point?” Daemon asked in confusion.

“As for all this claptrap about being immortal ... Where does that even come from?” Thack demanded.

“The undead?” I guessed. “Though I suppose Max would say they’re not immortal, they’re just mystically animated by—”

“Someone living for hundreds of years? It’s idiotic!” Thack raged.

I kept my mouth shut.

He added to Daemon, “And how, by the way, were you planning to fake immortality? Plastic surgery can only take you so far, after all.”

Daemon’s jaw dropped and he gave me a look of horrified betrayal. “You told him?”

“Told him what?” I asked blankly.

“About . . .” Daemon made a vague gesture.

“Oh! About your plastic surgery?” I said, realizing what he meant. “No. Why would I tell him? Why would I tell anyone?”

The girl looked at him. “You had surgery?”

“Childhood accident,” he said quickly, slurring the words.

I had no doubt that Tarr would soon sniff out who Danny Ravinsky was, as well as the fact that he had altered his appearance when becoming Daemon Ravel. And then everyone would know. But since celebrities getting plastic surgery had by now become as common as my mother getting brisket and matzo, I still didn’t see what the big fat hairy deal was.

Thack, meanwhile, was really on a roll now.

“You know what else? The only vampire who requires an invitation to enter your home is a well-raised one with good manners.” His voice was rising, along with his temper. “A gauche lout of a vampire can burst through your front door whenever he feels like it—no invitation needed, folks!”

Thack’s outburst was starting to attract some attention.

From my posse’s nearby table, Treat said, “Yeah, dude, I hear you. Like, I can go anywhere without an invitation. I don’t. But I can.”

Silent nodded his head in agreement with this.

Thack stared at them in consternation and said to me, “They think they’re vampires, too?”

“Well, they are my vampire posse,” I said.

“You know what else is complete nonsense?” Thack said, returning to venting his spleen on Daemon and the girl. “Vampires who cringe at the sight of Christian crosses and melt when someone sprinkles them with holy water. Lithuania is mostly Roman Catholic—and that means, so are we!”

“Lithuania?” Daemon repeated with a bewildered expression.

The girl asked, “Who’s she?”

“Do you go to Mass every week?” I asked Thack curiously, thinking about Lopez.

“No, just once in a while. Easter. Christmas. Before the Obie Awards,” he said. “The usual.”

“Look,” Daemon’s lap girl said to Thack. “You are totally free to practice vampirism the way you want to, and that’s cool. But I totally think you should stop trying to tell everyone else how to be a vampire. Let them be vampires in their own way.”

“Let it go,” I told Thack. “You’re wasting your breath.”

He sighed and let his posture sag. “Totally.”

Now that Thack had raised the subject, though, I had a question about vampires which I had been pondering for some time. “As long as we seem to be rooted to this spot until Uncle Peter phones back . . .”

“Who?” Daemon asked.

“Tell me,” I said to him and his cuddly friend. “What is the sexual appeal of vampires? I mean, I understand why someone would be attracted to the idea of being one. There are perks, after all. Immortality, superhuman strength, psychic powers, shape-shifting abilities—”

“Oh, for God’s sake.” Thack folded his arms on the table and lay his head on them.

“But given that we’re talking about a murderous creature with fangs who feasts on human blood—why does anyone want to sleep with a vampire?”

The girl snorted. “If you have to ask that, then you obviously haven’t slept with one.”

“Oh, neither have you,” Thack said without lifting head.

Daemon’s red-rimmed eyes focused a little with interest, and I realized this must be a subject he’d thought about often in the years since he had first played a vampire and discovered the erotic power of the role.

“Well, it’s sexy stuff, isn’t it?” he said. “All that piercing and sucking and biting. The rich, sensual flow of blood. The intimacy of being fed on.”

It didn’t come out of his liquor-soaked mouth quite that clearly, but that was the gist of it.

“Yeah, I get the metaphors,” I said. “And in performance, I play those metaphors. In fact, I practically beat them to death. But as a sexual fantasy—let alone a dating strategy—I really don’t get it. The logistics keep getting in the way.”

“Huh?”

“Have you ever actually been bitten by something with fangs or sharp canines?” I asked.

“A dog,” Daemon said.

“A snake,” the girl said. “I was posing nude with it, and—”

“That’s all the information we need,” Thack said, still facedown on the table.

“And I’ve been bitten by a cat, two dogs, and a ferret,” I said. “Also by Daemon.”

“Wow,” the girl said.

“I lead a thrilling life.” I continued, “And being bitten hurts. Once those sharp teeth sink in, break the skin, and draw blood, your nerves scream with pain. Sex is the very last thing on your mind.”

Thack lifted his head. “I hope you people are listening to her.”

“Now imagine someone doing that to a major vein or artery.” I was gaining momentum. “The piercing of your jugular vein would be eye-crossingly painful and also dangerous—quite possibly life threatening.”

Thack said, “Call me old-fashioned, but I’m not interested in sex that involves a visit to the ER.”

“And piercing the carotid artery?” I said, really finding my stride now. “Do you have any idea how messy that would be? You wouldn’t get an artistic trickle of ruby liquid sliding down your neck,” I told the girl. “You’d get a geyser of bright red arterial blood that would turn the bed into a gory mess. And your vampire lover would be covered in the stuff spraying from your neck, not tidily wiping a few drops of it from his lips.”

I had spent three days playing an ER nurse on the popular medical soap opera Our Restless Hearts. I knew my stuff.

“You should be taking notes,” Thack said to the girl, who looked increasingly appalled.

Daemon was staring at me with fierce concentration— which was certainly more attention than he ever paid to my words when he was sober.

“And you,” I said to him, “would need an industrial cleaning team to keep up with the mess, if you were doing this on a regular basis. You’d have to throw out all your sheets and pillows every time. You’d go through mattresses pretty fast, too. You also might need your walls and floors thoroughly scrubbed after every—”

“God, you’re sick!” The girl looked at me as if I had just urinated in her drink.

“I’m not the one who proposed having sex in a coffin a few minutes ago,” I replied.

“I do not like your friends, Daemon.” She slid off his lap and stomped away, ignoring his belated suggestion that maybe she could go get us some more drinks.

Daemon shrugged, then looked at me. “You’re foka too much on the milkall deals.”

I frowned. “What?”

“You’re focused too much on the medical details,” Thack translated.

“Oh.” I was surprised that Daemon had followed my rant well enough to have an opinion.

I touched the welt on my neck. “This was not a sexy experience for me, even if your fans enjoyed it.”

“A vampire lover,” he said seriously, making a noticeable effort to articulate clearly, “is powerful, mysterious, experienced. He dominates your will. He lives outside the rules. He is ruthless, but can be tender if—”

“He also probably has skin like ice,” I said, as the ramifications of an “undead” lover occurred to me. “I mean, he’s not alive, right? Not in the normal, mortal sense of the word.”

“So his skin wouldn’t be the only cold thing you’d notice about him,” Thack said with a startled laugh.

“You’re right!” My eyes widened. “Daemon, I can assure you, after the first time you’ve had a cold gynecological instrument shoved up your—”

“Please rephrase that thought,” Thack said.

“Well, suffice it to say, there are certain body parts that aren’t coming anywhere near me if they’re cold,” I said firmly. “Plus—cold kisses? A cold tongue? Blegh! Wouldn’t it be like kissing a reptile?”

“Thank you for yet another image that will be haunting me late into the night,” Thack said.

“I’m just not seeing it,” I said to Daemon, who was staring at me dumbfounded. “Sure, I get the metaphor. But once you really start thinking about this stuff—a vampire lover is about as erotic as serving dinner in a morgue that needs cleaning.”

“And the imagery keeps right on coming.” Thack pulled his cell phone out of his pocket.

“Ohhh . . .” Daemon hunched over a little and covered his mouth with one hand. “I don’t feel so good.”

“It’s just barely possible,” I said without sympathy, “that you’ve have too much to drink.”

“I’m calling my uncle.” Thack flipped open the phone. “I can’t take much more of . . . Oh, for God’s sake. Of course. That’s what’s taking so long.”

“What?” I asked.

“I’m not getting a signal down here.”

“Ungh.” Daemon clutched his stomach. “I think I’m going to . . . to . . .”

“You just need some air,” Thack said to him. “Let’s get out of here so I can call Wisconsin.”

“Good idea.” I was already out of my chair. “Oh, what’ll we do about the bill?”

Thack eyed Daemon, who was groaning and making alarming faces. “He’s a regular here. Let’s tell them to put the drinks on his tab. He did most of the drinking, after all.”

I nodded. “Our waitress is still AWOL, so I’ll go tell the bartender. You take the prince of night outside before he makes a mess on the floor.”

Thack nodded, then took a firm hold of Daemon’s elbow and guided the groaning actor toward the stairs. I told Treat and Silent the plan. Since they were on duty, so to speak, they’d only had soft drinks; so rather than search fruitlessly for the waitress, they just threw some cash on their table and went to wait by the stairs, keeping their eyes fixed on me as I made my way to the bar. I elbowed my way through the crowd, found the bartender, and explained the situation. She said it was no problem. I got the impression that despite Daemon’s character flaws, he was a reliable customer who could be trusted to cover his debts.

Eager to get outside and learn if there was any news from Vilnius yet, I quickly turned to go—and walked right into our long-absent waitress. She was carrying a platter loaded with dirty empties back to the bar, and she seemed to be in a hurry, too. We collided fast and hard, staggered sideways together, tripped over an empty chair, and went flying. The two of us landed in a noisy, painful clatter of breaking glass, startled shouts, and bone-cracking collision with the hard floor.

I lay there winded and in pain, thinking about how much I wished I had defied Thack and just gone home to bed. When helpful hands grasped my arms and shoulders to help me off the floor, I protested. I didn’t want to get up. I just wanted to lie here until someone brought a stretcher, put me on it, and took me home.

Then someone said, “She’s bleeding!”

I became aware of the stinging in my left hand, previously unnoticed because everything else hurt so much. I turned my head to look at it. I saw that, when landing in this painful heap, I had cut the heel of my palm on a wineglass that had shattered into large, sharp pieces.

“Oy.” I held up my quivering hand and studied it. I was lucky. If the cut had been just a half-inch lower, the broken glass would have driven into the soft tissue of my wrist and I’d need a paramedic. I groaned, cradling my hand, and let Treat and Silent haul me off the floor.

I apologized to the waitress, who was disheveled and grimacing but didn’t seem to be seriously hurt. She blamed me for the accident—and was so vocally angry at me that Treat wound up speaking firmly to her while Silent folded his arms and gave her a hard stare.

While they were doing that, I looked down at my hand and realized it was really bleeding. “Damn.”

I grabbed a couple of red-and-black cocktail napkins off the bar to press against the cut.

Then I looked around and realized that I was far from the door, in an underground cellar, surrounded by strangers who self-identified as vampires; and I was bleeding.

“We need to go,” I said to my posse. “Now.”

I turned and headed for the door, feeling all eyes upon me. Quickening my footsteps, I heard my two bodyguards right behind me—and felt uncomfortably aware that they, too, considered themselves vampires.

I sure hoped those girls in the bathroom had been right about most of the “vampire community” not drinking blood. As the club’s clientele all watched me make my dash for the door, my heart pounded with anxiety and I prayed that no one would try to snack on my hand.

I dashed up the steep, dark steps to exit the Vampire Cave, unnerved by the thudding footsteps of the two vamparazzi right behind me. When I emerged onto the sidewalk, I panted with relief.

Shaking a little with reaction from my painful fall, my nasty cut, and my subsequent anxiety attack, I looked around to get my bearings. Daemon was leaning against the side of the building, close to the window where the leather-gear novelty shop displayed its wares. He was clutching his stomach with one hand and his head with the other. Thack was pacing up and down the sidewalk, talking into his cell phone. Flame and Casper, hanging out by their bikes, approached when they saw me emerge from the club.

Flame immediately noticed my injured hand. “What happened, Miss Diamond?”

“I fell and cut myself.”

He looked sternly at Treat and Silent. “You allowed Miss Diamond to be injured? On our watch?”

“It was an accident,” I said. “I bumped into—”

“Miss Diamond’s safety is our responsibility!” Flame admonished his crew. “If we can’t protect her in a lowrisk environment like the Vampire Cave, how will we protect her against a real threat?”

“Actually, I just fell and—”

“If Miss Diamond falls down again, we need to be there breaking the fall!” Flame declared. “Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes,” said Casper.

“Yes,” said Treat. “I won’t fail again.”

Silent nodded.

“Oh, it’s just a cut, fellows.” Actually, in the dim light of the street lamps, I could see that the blood was seeping through the bar napkin. “Uh, has anyone got a hanky or something?”

I had left my tote bag locked inside Daemon’s car with his chauffeur, rather than haul it into the club. And it only contained a few tissues, anyhow; I could tell that I needed something more substantial for this cut.

The men searched their pockets, then apologized profusely for coming up empty-handed.

“That’s okay. I’ll ask Thack,” I said. “Um, at ease, men.”

I walked over to my agent. His eyes widened when he saw my disheveled appearance and injured hand.

“Just a minute, Uncle Peter.” He held the phone against his chest. “What on earth has happened to you now?”

“Never mind. What’s the news from Vilnius?”

“There was a vampire hunter here. A guy called Benas Novicki. Apparently he was an old hand. Very experienced.”

“And?”

“He’s missing,” Thack said gravely.

“Missing?” I repeated. “For how long?”

“They’re not sure. The last time they heard from him was about three months ago, when he reported that he was closing in on someone he’d been hunting for a while.”

“That’s it? No more contact after that?”

“None.”

“They didn’t think that was strange?”

“Not for a while,” Thack said. “Apparently hunters are better at killing vampires than they are at staying in touch with the council. Anyhow, they finally started trying to reach him couple of weeks ago. No response. He’s missing.” Thack sighed and added, “Now that we’ve related what’s happening here, he’s also presumed dead. The council is sure he wouldn’t drop the ball on this.”

“Well, isn’t there another vampire hunter in town? A back-up guy?” When Thack shook his head, I demanded, “What kind of shoddy operation is this?”

“A fourteenth-century one,” Thack said. “And it’s not as if vampire hunters are thick on the ground, Esther. Only some vampires are hunters. And there are only a few thousand vampires, after all, in a world of six billion people, so—”

“Okay, okay, I get it. Well, what are we supposed to do now?”

“That’s what I’m finding out.”

Seeing that he was about to put the phone to his ear again, I said, “Wait! Do you have a handkerchief?”

He patted his breast pocket then shook his head. “Sorry.”

Thack went back to talking to his uncle, and I went over to where Daemon was leaning against the building in a stupor. I asked if he had a hanky. Lost in the throes of booze-induced dizziness and nausea, he didn’t seem to hear me.

“Where’s your car, Daemon? Can you call the driver?” I prodded.

He wheezed, and his eyes started watering.

“Can you hear me?” I asked. “I want my bag. And it’s time to go.”

To my surprise, as I stood there trying to communicate with the inebriated actor, a police squad car pulled up to the curb. I was even more surprised when Lopez got out of the car’s backseat.

He gave me an exasperated look, then leaned down to the driver’s window to speak to the officers in the vehicle.

He was clean-shaven today but otherwise still looked disreputable, and his clothes were even more unexpected than last night’s grubby ensemble. He was wearing waders, the sort of things that fishermen or utility workers sometimes wore: rubber boots that turned into trousers that came up to his waist, held up by suspenders.

Lopez finished speaking to the cops, then turned and came toward the spot on the sidewalk where I stood with an actor who was threatening to puke.

As a chilly breeze swept across the street, I got a distinct whiff of sewage. “What is that?”

Daemon sneezed, then groaned again. “My allergies. You’re standing too close to me!”

“Oh. Sorry.”

I stepped away—and bumped into Lopez. He caught me by the shoulders and turned me to face him.

That’s when I realized where that odor was coming from. “Oh, my God, that’s you?”

He said tersely, in a low voice, “What part of ‘stay away from him’ didn’t you understand when we talked about this?”

“What is that smell?” Daemon moaned.

“Fine, I’ll get farther away from you,” I said to him.

His hands still on my shoulders, Lopez said, “You aren’t supposed to be near him in the first place!”

“No, not you,” Daemon said, his speech slurred, his half-closed eyes red and tearing. “It’s like ... ugh, what is that?”

Lopez’s impatient expression changed to mingled surprise and alarm when he got a good look at Daemon. “I’ll stand downwind of you,” he volunteered quickly.

“Oh, no . . .” Daemon hunched over. “I think I’m going to—Bweegggh!”

Lopez had been wise to wear waders.