"None of them."
Doc could nearly convince himself that he couldn't have made any real difference to his patients' survival-not even touching what surviving might have meant. He kept catching himself staring emptily at the wall, the book idle in his lap, thinking, thinking.
Part of it was his old job. People didn't die in the ambulance. Often enough they were dead when you got to the scene, and all you did was haul goods; that was unhappy, but it wasn't bad. If the patient was alive, he stayed alive until you got him to the emergency room. His heart might stop, but you just maintained the compressions and ventilation. The declaration, the time check, the paperwork, were in somebody else's hands.
None of them. Damn.
Sunday evening he picked up the phone three times to call Ginevra. But he didn't.
On Monday Patrise announced early in the day that everyone was to meet for dinner at La Mirada. Doe packed up and went early, just after opening. As he had hoped, Lucius was there, sitting alone.
"Good evening, Doc. Buy a member of the free and unbribable press a drink? Or here's a better one: Tell me what tomorrow's column is about and I'll buy yours."
"You heard about what happened Friday night?" Doc said cautiously.
"Ah. Not an ideal topic, Doc. Meddle not with the preconceptions of audiences, for they are obtuse and quick to switch channels."
"Channels?"
"Newspapers, I should have said. My, how hard some habits die."
"It's-"
"It's Whisper. And yes, Doc, the incident is news. It isn't features. Mark the difference."
"You know about him, then. Whisper."
"I know about Whisper Who Dares. We aren't acquainted."
Doc waited. Lucius didn't say any more. Doc said, "What do you think he was trying to do?"
Lucius said slowly, "You really want to talk about it, don't you?"
Doc pressed his hands on the table.
"Well, you can't," Lucius said, more coldly than Doc had ever heard him speak. "I keep telling you, confidences aren't my beat. Just the opposite."
"Who do you suggest I do talk to?"
"Birdsong on trust in one paragraph: Nobody. You do not live among such people, good people though they are. You do not, in fact, live in such a world, good world though it is… On second thought, you do know someone who can keep a secret."
"Who?"
"Phasia."
"Thanks," Doc said unpleasantly, and then suddenly he began to understand. Something was horribly wrong, locked up inside Lucius, and he couldn't speak it directly; he was telling Doc the only way he could. Doc felt angry with himself for not hearing it sooner.
"Would you mind telling me something, then?"
"Within the bounds of time, knowledge, and the language."
"What do you know about Mr. Patrise? How he got started, I mean."
Lucius looked sad, but no longer cold and angry. "I guess you're buying the drinks, huh."
"Sure."
"There are a lot of stories. I came late to him, so stories are all I know, kapeesh? For something closer you'll have to talk to someone who was there earlier-Stagger Lee, maybe, Cloudhunter. McCain goes the farthest back, but, well. So are stories all right?"
"Yes."
"He was a South Side kid, that's pretty certain. There's a story that when he was, oh, nine, ten, he carried books everywhere he went. If you laughed at the bookworm, you found out how neatly a signature binding could hide a stiletto. I'm not sure I believe that one. Or if it's true, I think Patrise has put it a long way behind himself.
"A reliable tale is that he put together a gang to turn over rare coin shops. Pure burglary, no bodily harm anyone's heard of, though it's your call to believe that part. They were very selective: gold and silver, none of the alloy coins that came later. Some stamps, apparently. And some pennies were made out of shellcase metal after World War Two: they always got those.
"Later, so spools the yarn, they quit that and went on to plumbing suppliers and salvage yards-copper and zinc and lead in quantity."
"Lead?"
"This is a what story, not a why story. Eventually, as most of the smarter gangsters did, he moved legitimate. Like them, he was providing what people wanted, not necessarily what they needed- places like this, the coffee trade."
"I see."
"You say that like you know what it all means. It wasn't Patrise who decided the returning elves were Cuban commies from Mars, and saved Miami from a fate worse than death by turning it into a radioactive lagoon.
"Patrise was made in refiner's tire, out of true metal," Lucius said. "Whereas the Great Spirit made me of sawdust and printer's ink and cheap scotch, and was working under deadline."
"Oh, Lucius, stop it."
"I know what you want to know about." Lucius's voice had a rough edge, partly whiskey. "And I can't help you. If it were a simple matter of betraying a confidence, that would be no trouble at all, just as I say. But it's beyond that. I wish I could help you, Doc, you're a good guy, but I can't."
Patrise came in then, and at once the evening had organization and direction.
McCain and Stagger Lee had come with Patrise, Carmen, and Phasia, but not Ginny or Cloudhunter. Doc wondered if Ginny was alone. He wondered what he would do about it if she were.
Carmen came onstage, in a tight gold blouse that showed one shoulder and a triangle of midriff, a trailing black skirt.
Say how you cut it
You'11 never get it so thin
An edge of softness
To turn the hardness within
When will your face fall
After the long masquerade
The razors open
Come out and dance on the blade
So here's a tip of the hat
To all the melancholy people
So uncertain what they 're ready to feel
(Waitin' all night)
Diamond cut diamond
Silk cut steel
During the second verse Matt and Gloss came out, doing a sharp turn around the floor timed to the lyrics. It wasn't really interpretive. Doc supposed that might have made people nervous.
So here's a tip of the glove To all the solitary people Undercover in the world of the real (Hidin all night)
Diamond cut diamond Silk cut steel
Pavel was standing in the doorway, making a hand signal. Pa-trise nodded and looked away. Pavel stared, then went back into the foyer.
So here's a tip of the shoe To all the predatory people Overeager for the whip and the heel (Playin' all night) Diamond cut diamond Silk cut steel
Carmen and the dancers took their bows, disappeared through the curtains. The room lights came up.
Everybody turned around.
Two new people were standing just inside the door. One was a tall, dark-skinned woman with black-and-white hair. She had mirrored sunglasses above lips like a surgical incision. She was wearing a long trenchcoat of silver-gray leather over a loose white cotton suit; no shirt, a thin strip of metallic silver cloth around her long throat. Her hands were thrust into the coat pockets, not casually.
The other was the shortest elf Doc had ever seen, a man built like a bull, his white hair cut down to fuzz on his skull. He had sunglasses as well, heavy-framed black ones. Doc had to check again that he was really Trueblood, and not an albino human, but the ears were definite, as were the weirdly delicate hands-really weird, on those piston forearms. He wore a black team jacket for the Topanga Toons, heavy gray trousers bloused into cycle boots. His wide belt had a bunch of pouches and clips; a white rod, thin as a pencil and eighteen inches long, rode in a sleeve, and there were handcuffs hanging on the other side.
They were eops. They didn't look like any eops Doe had e\er seen before, but he knew anyway.
Someone at another table said, in an awful fake British accent, "I say, Patrise, we're nor being bally raided are we?"
"Relax, Nigel," Patrise said, with complete unconcern. "The