Solid. That was the word that best described the place.

      Joey had no trouble spotting Osgood "Wally" Gaiter. Wally slouched at the bar, flabby butt overflowing the stoolseat, baleful eyes fixed on the televison set above the bartender's bald head. He was drinking beer, and between sips he fiddled with the red woolen scarf wrapped around his neck.

      Joey sat down next to him, gave him a light pat on the back and said, "Say, hey, Wally. Buy you another round?"

      Wally wrenched his gaze away from the evening news and scowled at Joey. It took him a minute, but he eventually smiled in recognition. "Whaddaya know. Joey Spelvin. Ain't it a little early for Trick or Treat?" His voice was raspy and hoarse, like he'd been gargling with Tabasco.

      "I'm studying to be a lounge singer. You want another beer, or something stronger?"

      Wally licked his liverish lips and thought about it. "I wouldn't say no to a Jack Daniel's."

      Joey signalled the barkeep. "Some Jack Daniel's for Wally and a tall glass of Diet Coke for me."

      "Hear you quit your job at the video store," said Wally. "Old Patterson's been having conniptions since you left. He hired some Vietnamese kid who barely speaks English, and it's not working out."

      Wally had a thing for caper films. A big fan of Topkapi and Raffifi, he had become a regular at the Picture Palace after Joey put him hip to Michael Mann's Thief, starring James Caan. "They got it right," Wally had said at the time. "In real life, the colors ain't as bright and the music ain't as loud, but the rest of it was right on the money."

      Their drinks arrived. Joey paid the bartender, left a reasonable tip, then said to Wally, "Mind if we take these to a table? Talk in private for a while?"

      Fortified with a sip of Jack Daniel's, Wally was agreeable. "Sure. Why not?"

      Joey led him to a corner booth, well away from the rest of the customers. Wally squeezed in, set his glass down and said, "All right, kid, what's up? I can tell by your makeover that this ain't no social call."

      That's what Joey liked about Wally. The guy loved his liquor, but he didn't let it get the best of him. The brain still clicked on all cylinders.

      "I've got a problem that maybe you can help me with."

      "What kind of problem?"

      "I need help getting into someone's house."

      Wally frowned and cocked an eyebrow. "I thought you were on the straight and narrow."

      Joey took a swig of soda. "I usually am. But this is personal business. I'm getting back at people who've hurt friends of mine, who want to hurt me bad."

      Wally shook his head. "I dunno. I like you, Joey, and I don't wanna see you get in trouble. I've done my share of time, and I know what I'm talking about."

      "I understand that." Until two years ago, Wally had been doing a stretch at Lompoc for an after-hours jewelry store robbery. That's how he missed the original theatrical release of Thief.

      "Besides, I'm getting too old and fat for B and E."

      "You don't have accompany me inside, Wally. You just have to show me how to get there."

      "Where's the property?"

      Joey gave him the address. Wally stared at him in disbelief. "Are you nuts? That's Pacific Heights. Those houses are wired up the wazoo."

      "Most are, but I've got a feeling that this one's different. I think the owner's too self-satisfied to worry much about home security. I bet there isn't anything on the property that can't be dismantled in seconds by a pro like yourself."

      "Flattery'll get you nowhere, son." Wally's hands moved to his scarf, picking at the fabric. "What about d-d-dogs? Are there any dogs on the premises?"

      "No. No animals."

      "You're sure, now? That's not just a guess?"

      "I can double-check."

      "You had goddamn well better." Whether the action was conscious or not, Wally let the scarf slip down a few inches, exposing the puckered, white flesh beneath it.

      Joey knew the story. During his years as a young and spry cat burglar, Wally had been surprised during a heist by the victim's Doberman. The beast got him by the throat and damn near chewed through his jugular. Now Wally wore a welter of scars from his chin to the top of his breastbone. Summer and winter, he kept the scars hidden with his red woolen scarf.

      Someone fed the jukebox a quarter, and Old Blue Eyes launched into "New York, New York." Joey deducted points from The Crazy Eights' Cool Quotient. "How about it, Wally? Are you interested?"

      A sly light played in Wally's piggy eyes. "Maybe. How much are you willing to spend on this operation?"

      Joey smiled indulgently and wagged a finger at him. "That's not how the game works. You tell me how much it's all going to cost, and I'll let you know whether I can afford it."

      Wally pulled out a pencil and pad and did some heavy number-crunching. His calculations completed, he said, "Well, we're gonna to have to throw money at some security firms, bribe a few professional secrets out of them. And then there's my consulting fee. Not to mention miscellaneous purchases." Wally spread his hands. "I tell ya, Joey, I don't see how we can do it for less than five grand."

      The members of Claude's and Chantal's humfos had all pitched in and collected nearly ten thousand in small bills, to be put toward expenses while Joey devised a plan to defeat Henri Concasseur. He was not about to spend half of it all in one place.

      He said, "Sounds like you're trying to discourage me from a life of crime." Wally shrugged. "Three grand seems a more likely figure to me."

      Wally sucked the last of the whiskey from his glass. "Can't be done."

      "Sorry to hear you say that. Now I'll have to go shopping around. I probably won't find another second-story man as scrupulous as you, Wally, but I can probably locate someone who needs the money more. Oh, well. Catch you later."

      Wally caught him by the sleeve and pulled him back down. "Thirty-five hundred. Any less and you're asking for real trouble."

      Joey pretended to think about it. "OK."

      Wally held up a finger. "But before I agree to anything, I get to check things out a bit, see if this job is even feasible. And that's gonna cost you a grand up front, no bargaining allowed."

      That seemed fair. "Agreed." They shook on it.

      "How soon do you need this done?"

      "On or before Saturday."

      "What? You're outta ya mind!"

      "Like you said, check things out. Once you have all the facts, if you don't think you can do the job, then call it quits."

      Wally twiddled the ends of his scarf and pouted. "When do I get the grand?"

      "Bright and early tomorrow morning. I'll drop by your place with it. At the same time, I'm going to want to buy a set of lock picks from you, for another, smaller job. I don't expect to spend more than another hundred."

      Wally gave him a long, hard look. "You're really into this, ain't you, kid?"

      Joey stood and put a five dollar bill on the table for Wally's next drink. "Everybody needs a hobby."

      "Finish your cockroaches, and let's go."

      "Man, these things had better do the trick. If they don't, I'm going to be really pissed off."

      "If they don't work, we're both going to be really dead. Come on. We've got to hurry."

      Joey choked down the last of the Roaches Over Rice. Actually they didn't taste all that bad, having been de-winged, de-legged and then fried with garlic and nutmeg. They were laboratory-bred, free of loathsome germs. So it was mainly the thought of them somehow coming to skittering life in his stomach that made eating the insects so damn difficult.

      Maurice Tolliver rinsed his dishes in the kitchen sink. "Haitian mothers give their toddlers about half a cupful to protect them from a loup-garou. I hope we've had enough to spoil our blood."

      "I swear, this religion has the most fucked-up attitude towards food."

      After their meal, they drove out to the Sunset District, where Carol and Tom Hartinger owned a house. It had been two days since Joey put Tom on ice. According to Maurice's surveillance team, Carol spent the first thirty-six hours holed up at home. Today she had come out, dressed for work at her law office.

      Joey looked at his watch. 4:30. Lawyers rarely left work before six, so that would give them at least two hours to set things up before Carol returned home. Someone from the First Church of Caribbean Mysteries had her office building staked out, and they would receive ample warning if Carol decided to cut out early for any reason.

      After parking the car about a block away, Joey and Maurice unloaded their tools and made their way to the Hartingers' front door. Joey took out his set of picks and made quick use of the pointers he'd picked up from Wally Gaiter. One, two, three -- the door was open, and they were inside.

      The house belonged to people with more money than brains. Glass and chrome glinted from every surface. Adult toys -- computer, CD player, digital exercycle, electronic backgammon board, personal fax machine, programmable music keyboard and much more -- cluttered shelves and floorspace.

      The place looked clean, but its air was stale. Joey wrinkled his nose at the odor. The apartment smelled like a kennel, dank and doggy. There was no evidence of any pets.

      Without turning on the lights, they set to work, sealing every window and vent with incantations, amulets and veves. "Leave no opening unprotected," Maurice cautioned. "Loup-garoux are shapeshifters. She may turn into a cockroach and try to escape through a tiny hole in the wall."

      It took them more than an hour to complete the task, but they eventually had the downstairs sealed to Maurice's satisfaction.

      At 6:15, the phone rang twice. After thirty seconds, it rang three times. Carol Hartinger was on her way home from the office. It would take her approximately twenty-five minutes.

      "I'll hide in the study," said Maurice. "You should hide in the broom closet, Joey. Give her time to get well into the house, then slip behind her and seal the front door with this." He handed Joey an amulet similar to the one Claude Baribeau had given to Alison. "Put it over the doorknob, and she won't be able to get out."

      At 6:30, Joey stuffed himself into the closet, leaving the door slightly ajar. He stood in the dark, listening to his heart boom in his chest.

      Carol Hartinger took longer to show up than they had anticipated. It was just after seven when Joey heard keys jingle in the front door lock. Voices spoke on the stoop.

      "I still don't know whether I should call the police or not. None of us can afford much official scrutiny right now."

      "Give him another day. See what happens."

      Shit! She'd brought someone home with her. Joey recognized the voice instantly. Riggs Robertson, the Crossroads emcee.

      They entered the house and closed the door behind them. Through the crack in the closet door, Joey saw the lights go on.

      Carol gasped. "Jesus Christ!"

      "What the hell?"

      No choice. Now or never. Joey sprang out of the closet and threw himself across the living room, tackling Robertson and ramming his head into Robertson's stomach on the way down. Before he could retaliate, Joey jumped up and tossed an amulet around the doorknob, cutting off Carol Hartinger's retreat.

      Maurice entered from the study, shouting a prayer in Creole. He came out swinging a machete, the blade whistling through the air.

      It took only a second for Hartinger to react. She had entered the house dressed for excess, all tailored suit and ruffled blouse. The outfit became a pile of expensive rags as the loup-garou began her transformation.

      Maurice charged, brandishing the machete over his head. Riggs Robertson, recovered from Joey's surprise attack, grabbed him around the ankle. Maurice pitched forward. When he landed, the machete shot out of his hand and skittered across the floor.

      Joey and Hartinger both dove for the weapon. She was fast and powerful, a bundle of fur-covered muscle, armed with slashing teeth and claws. Joey was closer, and it was his hand that first grabbed the blade's handle.

      Taloned hands clutched his necklace. The grip must have cost Carol Hartinger untold pain, because black smoke curled from her smoldering fingertips. She howled with rage and agony, but she held on, twisting with incredible strength.

      For an unbearable instant, the necklace bit deeply into Joey's throat, cutting off his breathing. He dropped the machete. The necklace broke, showering the floor with bits of shell and stone.

      The magic evaporated. Joey could actually feel it dribble away, leaving him without protection. With nothing to stop her, the loup-garou seized him and held him aloft by the back of his shirt.

      It was as if his blood had been somehow carbonated. He could feel it roiling inside him, moving faster than white water, trying to bubble up to the surface. He watched in horror as tiny beads of red sprouted on his bare arm. Wet copper leaked into his mouth.

      Robertson, who easily outweighed Maurice by fifty pounds, had the younger man pinned on the floor and was trying to strangle him. He yelled, "For god's sake, don't kill Spelvin. Concasseur wants him alive!"

      She spun Joey around so that he faced her and had no choice but to stare into her mad eyes. "He's mine now," she shrieked, washing him in rancid canine breath. "I'm hungry, and I want him!"

      The loup-garou began to drink. She licked Joey's face with a long, slime-coated tongue and eagerly slurped up his blood. Joey screamed and fought. A deadly pressure built up inside his guts, as if his viscera were about to explode.

      The werewolf suddenly went rigid, a look of puzzlement and alarm in her eyes. She dropped Joey and brought her hands up to her throat. She began to retch, like a dog with a chicken bone lodged in its throat.

      The cockroaches! They had actually done the trick, tainted his blood enough so that it was poisonous to Carol Hartinger.

      The pain subsiding, Joey had enough strength to roll over to the machete. Grabbing it, he wobbled to his feet. He looked down and saw the crimson imprint he had left on the floor.

      The werewolf thrashed around the room, knocking over furniture and expensive toys. Wracked with convulsions, she almost fell on top of Riggs Robertson and Maurice. Robertson scrabbled to avoid being crushed, but he tripped over an up-ended coffee table and went down hard again.

      Maurice was far more nimble. Although badly beaten, he picked himself up and dodged out of the way of the rampaging loup-garou.

      Carol Hartinger vomited. A blast of foul yellow liquid, smelling like concentrated battery acid, gushed from her mouth. When the torrent struck the floor, the puke sizzled and steamed.

      Some of it spattered on Riggs Robertson, burning his face and eating through his clothes. He shrieked and tried to stand, but his feet slipped out from under him.

      Maybe she was blind, maybe she had been driven insane. Either way, the monster that had been Carol Hartinger lunged for Robertson. She sunk her claws deep into his chest and lifted him to her vomit-flecked jaws.

      Robertson screamed, "It's me! It's --!" The loup-garou cut his words short by biting out his throat. Blood jetted, soaking the white walls and the werewolf's gray fur.

      Joey sprang at Carol Hartinger and, while she ripped Robertson's carcass apart, chopped the heavy blade into the back of her neck. Hartinger yowled.

      The machete caught in the bone. Joey yanked it free and, with the second swing, lopped the werewolf's head off.

      Joey and Maurice stood in silence for a long moment afterwards. Joey couldn't take his eyes off Carol Hartinger's corpse. He expected it to change gradually back to human form, like Lon Chaney, Jr. in "Wolfman" movie. But it didn't. It remained a huge, horrendous wolf-beast, covered with gore and puke.

      "Come on," said Maurice finally. "Let's get out of here."

      They took coats from Tom Hartinger's closet, hoping that the long garments would cover most of the blood on their own clothes. Slipping out the back door, they cut through yards and made it to their car without attracting any attention.

      Driving back to the motel, Joey wondered what the SFPD was going to make of finding a gutted game show host and a decapitated humanoid wolf together in a quiet Sunset District home. It was going to take an awful lot of juju to make them think it was just another routine domestic disturbance.

      Three down. Three to go.