The customer, unable to choose between Sorority Abattoir and Fiends of Fate , inspected the two cardboard cassette boxes, dropped both on the floor and walked out of Patterson's Picture Palace.

      Patterson, slumped behind the counter, held his chin in his hands. All the time, kids and adults came in here, wanting advice about crappy films he'd never heard of. The Sucking. Meat-Eating Creeps. Dormitory Debauchery. What the hell kinds of movies were those? He was happy to answer questions about It Happened One Night, The African Queen or Stagecoach, but no one seemed to ask.

      This was all Spelvin's fault. It was Spelvin's fault for stocking all these disgusting tapes that Patterson didn't know anything about. It was his fault that Patterson had done something to the store computer so that it now sounded like it was chewing gravel in its drives. It was Spelvin's fault that Patterson couldn't hire anyone else for minimum wage and all the tapes they could watch.

      The door opened, a new customer walked in, and Patterson smiled for the first time all day. This guy would not be interested in anything called Blood-Sucking Geeks. He wasn't some neighborhood low-life. His expensive-looking three-piece suit bespoke the Financial District. Young, well-groomed and just a shade away from handsome, this stranger probably wanted to check out the Picture Palace's little-used selection of classic foreign films. Like Citizen Kane or something.

      Patterson said, "Good afternoon, sir! Anything I can help you with?"

      The stranger pushed his glasses higher onto his snubbed nose. "Yes. Is Joey Spelvin in, please?"

      What did this guy want with Spelvin? "Mr. Spelvin is no longer employed here."

      The stranger frowned. "Oh, really? When did he leave?"

      "Friday. After all I'd done for him, he just up and quit. No notice, no nothing. Did you have business with him?"

      "Not really business. Joey and I are friends. Acquaintances actually."

      "Oh." Patterson didn't know what else to say. He could not imagine Spelvin and this man holding any sort of conversation.

      The stranger stuck out his hand. "My name's Bill Hartinger. You're Mr. Patterson, I take it?"

      Patterson shook hands with him. "That's right."

      "Do you know how I might get ahold of Joey?"

      "Have you tried calling him at home?"

      "Nobody answers. He hasn't moved out of town, has he?"

      "Couldn't tell you. He didn't mention anything to me about it. He just called in, said he was quitting, and told me to mail his last check to some woman in Berkeley."

      "Would that be Alison Davis?"

      "Yeah, that's right. I've got her address in the back office, if you want it."

      "Thanks, but that won't be necessary."

      Hartinger turned to go. Patterson stopped him with, "Don't you want to rent a movie?"

      Hartinger sighed and grabbed the closest box. "Sure."

      Blood-Sucking Geeks. And Hartinger paid for it with a goddamn gift certificate.

      Night was falling rapidly. Crazy Al trudged through the streets, music keyboard under one arm, a hard-earned slice of pizza in the other hand. He couldn't wait to get home to his back-alley shelter. The last few days had taken a lot out of him. All he wanted to do now was settle in, eat his dinner and catch forty winks. He hoped the whisperers in his brain would let him sleep peacefully tonight.

      He was worried about the batteries in his music machine. They couldn't last forever, he knew that. A portable organ wasn't like that monkey he'd had when he lived with Poppa Jack, one that clapped its cymbals and rolled its eyes. It would go forever if you just turned its key.

      But you couldn't just put a key in a music machine and wind it up. A keyboard had keys, but they weren't the same kind. Al knew that.

      Al also wondered what had happened to Joey. The events of Thursday night had scared Al pretty bad. He had never seen his friend like that before. Still, Al felt proud that he done the right thing in going to Joey's apartment for help. Maybe Al wasn't such a fuck-up after all.

      Only three more blocks to go, and he would be home. Across the street, he spotted Lavinnie, pushing her caravan of junk-filled shopping carts lashed together with bungie cords. He waved and shouted, "Hey, Lavinnie, have a good night! See you tomorrow!"

      "Fuck you!" called Lavinnie.

      Al walked on.

      Rounding the final corner, Al, not able to wait any longer, stopped and took a bite of the pizza. It was a little cold, but, boy, did it taste good.

      Someone pushed him from behind. Al instinctively threw aside the keyboard and the pizza, flinging his hands out to break his fall. He hit the ground in a confused tangle, ripping out the knees of his pants and scraping raw the skin beneath.

      "OK, feeb," a voice said. "Stand up. I've got some questions for you."

      Al scrambled to his feet and faced his attacker. He wanted to run, but he wasn't sure he'd be fast enough.

      Before him stood a blond giant in jeans, a white tee shirt and hightop sneakers. Eyes hidden behind wrap-around sunglasses, he wore a set of stereo headphones stuck in his ears. When he smiled, the giant displayed a purple front tooth. Al recognized him from Halliday Plaza. He'd seen him there often but did not know his name.

      "What -- what do you want?" said Al. "I didn't do anything to you."

      "You're friends with a guy named Joey Spelvin, aren't you?"

      Al noticed the man's cassette player and suddenly remembered something Joey had said the other night. Could this be the Walkman Joey mentioned?

      "Well, do you know him?"

      Al didn't want to admit it. "Maybe."

      The Walkman grabbed Al's arm and twisted it up behind Al's back. The pain was excrutiating. Al whimpered and tears came to his eyes.

      "Do you know Spelvin? Tell me the truth, or I'll break your arm."

      "Yes! I know Joey. Please, don't hurt me any more!" Al hated betraying his friend, but the pain was too intense.

      "Where's he gone?"

      "I don't know." The pressure on his arm increased. "I don't know! Honest!"

      "Did he tell you he was leaving?"

      "Yeah. Came around to say goodbye last week."

      "And he didn't say a word about where he was going? Think hard."

      Al did just that. Living on the streets would be even more dangerous and difficult with only one good arm. "Joey said he was going up north."

      "Up north where? Canada?"

      "That's all I know. Honest. Please, leave me alone."

      The Walkman released him. Al cringed while the giant bent down and picked up the keyboard. The Walkman switched the instrument on and banged the heel of his palm onto the keys. The organ wailed with discordance.

      "Real pretty, don't you think?" Grasping it with both hands, the Walkman held the keyboard level with his wide forehead. His teeth bared in a malevolent grin, he smashed his head down on the keys repeatedly, with all his strength. After a few minutes, the instrument cracked in two.

      The Walkman threw it down, then stooped to pick up Al's slice of pizza.

      "I know how to find you. If you hear anything more from Spelvin and you don't tell me, I'm going to come and hurt you real bad. Got that?"

      Al stared at his trashed keyboard. "Yeah. I got it."

      "Good." The Walkman folded the filth-covered pizza over on itself and crammed it into his enormous mouth. He walked away without another word.

      "Why, Alison, fancy meeting you here!"

      Alison whirled around and nearly ran into a dog food display with her shopping cart. "Uh, uh, Carol! What a surprise!"

      Carol Hartinger smiled as wide as the big bow tie she wore and said, "I've been meaning to call you, you know. How is Joey doing? He gave us all such a turn last Thursday night."

      During the three days since she last saw Joey, Alison had anticipated some sort of overture from the Crossroaders. It only made sense that they would try to find Joey through her.

      She and Baribeau had spent Sunday afternoon fortifying her apartment with charm lamps and oraisons, the hand-written scrolls containing Creole prayers. Alison called in sick Monday and Tuesday and, after nothing untoward or mysterious occurred, returned to work on Wednesday.

      The last place she expected to be accosted by one of Concasseur's underlings was at the deli counter of the local Park 'n Shop.

      The amulet had failed to warn her, but now she definitely felt its tell-tale tingle.

      Should she just walk away without another word? Ignore Carol Hartinger and hope there was no one else in the store who meant her harm? What could Carol do? Tackle her in the checkout lane?

      On the other hand, was there anything to be gained in talking to this woman? Alison might be able to find out some information useful to Joey without putting herself in any great danger.

      Making up her mind, Alison said, "Joey's doing fine, I guess. I got a postcard from him yesterday."

      Carol Hartinger raised an eyebrow. "He's out of town?"

      "Uh huh. Visiting relatives in New England. I think he's got an aunt in Providence."

      "When did he leave?"

      "Friday morning."

      "Had he been planning this trip for a long time?"

      "Not that I know of. He took off on the spur of the moment. But that's Joey for you."

      While Carol mulled this over, Alison looked around for any other suspicious characters. A student couple argued quietly about whether to buy calamari vinaigrette or Thai shrimp salad. The counterperson sliced roast turkey for a harried mother with two tow-headed terrors in hand. Just a quiet early evening at the supermarket.

      "So, Carol, what brings you all the way over to the East Bay? I thought you and Tom lived in the City."

      "Once a month I help out at the campus Crossroads office." She pointed to the pink pastry box in her shopping cart. "I stopped in here to pick up a Black Forest cake for the dessert and coffee hour."

      Alison said, "There's a Crossroads chapter at UC?"

      "Oh, yes. Had I known you lived over here, I would have mentioned it to you. It's very successful. We attract some of the brightest students at the university. Thirty or forty members should be there tonight."

      The amulet was making Alison uncomfortable. It was like wearing a live wire around her neck. She tugged at it, lifting it slightly away from the skin of her breastbone.

      Carol saw her do it. She regarded the amulet with undisguised interest, leaning in to catch a better look at it.

      "My, what an unusual piece of jewelry! Was that a gift from Brad?"

      Carol Hartinger suddenly shut her mouth and involuntarily winced, as if she had said something very stupid.

      Very quietly, Alison said, "How do you know anything about Brad?"

      A damning flush surged up Carol's neck and cheeks. "Uh, well, I think Joey --"

      Alison shook her head. "He never did." She removed the amulet. "If you're so interested in the damn thing, you can have it." She swung the amulet at Carol Hartinger. The necklace might as well have been a King Cobra the way Carol reacted. She shrieked like a cat set afire. The amulet seemed to cling to her clothes for a moment before she brushed it away.

      The deli counterperson let a heaping spoonful of calimari vinaigrette fall to the floor with a wet splat. The tow-heads keened in surprise and fright. The student couple spun around in perfect precision, shocked by the sounds of anguish.

      "You bitch!" screamed Carol Hartinger, her voice echoing down the tiled aisles. She moved forward threateningly, then pulled back, not daring to walk over the amulet that lay between her and Alison.

      Carol fled, crashing blindly through an obstacle course of astonished, milling shoppers. She vaulted the gate of a closed check-out stand and ran out the exit, into the Berkeley dusk.

      Unmindful of the stares, Alison picked up her amulet and put it on. She pushed Carol Hartinger's abandoned shopping cart out of her way.

      The Crossroaders would go without cake tonight.