"Right." He placed the pen against the paper, then stopped and glanced under the table at the old man's feet.

"Checking for hooves, Harry?"

He wasn't about to admit to that. "No, merely rejoicing that I met my demise before descending into sartorial ignominy," he said, shuddering at the thought of wearing the requisite geezerly white patent leather loafers like those sported by the old man.

The old man snorted. Harry signed the contract, and the old man rose to his feet and approached the door. Harry followed him, watching as the old man carefully selected a key and fit it in the keyhole. After unlocking the door, the old man turned to Harry and said, "Good luck, son. I hope that next time we meet it will be under better conditions." Then he opened the door, and Harry walked out.

The insistent buzz of the alarm clock penetrated the fog that passed for Harry's brain. He sat up, slapping at the reset button and fighting down a surge of nausea. His head throbbed, and his mouth tasted like the bottom of a birdcage--one for a very large bird, and not a healthy one. He staggered out of bed, heading for the bathroom.

Alternating very hot and very cold water in the shower helped Harry become somewhat alert. He seemed to recall some sort of nightmare of getting shot and going to hell, but the details were hazy. He made a mental note: stay away from vodka, stick to scotch. His hands were shaking. Thank God for electric razors, he thought.

Copious amounts of mouthwash and toothpaste got rid of the birdcage taste. Eyedrops restored something approximating the normal color of his eyes. He downed enough aspirin and antacids to choke a horse before, dressed, he headed for the kitchen to make some coffee.

After two cups, he started to feel like he was waking up. He couldn't remember what day it was, so he looked at the calendar. Oh, yes. This morning he was supposed to meet Kirkendall's partner. What was her name? Randall? No, Russell.

He poured himself a third cup of coffee, then decided he needed a bracer. Hair of the dog. He got a bottle of whiskey and started to top off the mug of coffee, but something stopped him. There was something he'd heard . . . about Det. Russell? He shook his head, unable to remember. But he didn't add the whiskey. That could wait until this evening. Perhaps this woman would be attractive; they could meet somewhere off duty.

He swallowed the last of the coffee, popped a breath mint in his mouth to get rid of that stale coffee smell. Then he put on his coat, grabbed his keys, and left his apartment to face another day on the Job.