AGAINST OVERWHELMING ODDS
Kerry Lindemann-Schaefer


In memory of Jamie Long.



On the morning of a miserably cold winter day, my life took another unexpected turn. I was on duty at the hospital and had left the MRI suite where I worked in order to get the x-ray folder for our next patient from the fileroom. On the corner of the worktable, several folders lay waiting for the doctors' perusal. The name on one of them caught my eye and my heart skipped a beat.

I picked up the order form, scanning quickly down to the diagnosis: Pneumocystis carinii, the kind of pneumonia that typically strikes people who are HIV+. And just in case there was any doubt, a bright pink sticker proclaimed: BLOOD/BODY FLUIDS PRECAUTIONS.

I looked at the name again, hoping I had made a mistake. It didn't have to be my Bobbie. There must be a thousand Robert Lings in this country, and several of them here in Chinatown alone. My eye skipped over to the date of birth and my soul froze. No, it could still be coincidence. But I had to find out. I noted the room number, then picked up the folder I had come for and went back to MRI.

"Kevin, I'm taking my break now, okay?" I said to my supervisor.

"No problem, Jeremy." He glanced over at me and must have seen how upset I was, even though I thought I was hiding it. "Take as long as you need," he added.

As I often tell people, Kevin's a real good guy. I owe him a lot and I know it.


With my heart in my mouth, I walked into the room and over to the bed. No, there had been no mistake. This was my Bobbie, the gorgeous young man I had loved and lost, mostly due to my own jealous possessiveness, so many years ago.

He seemed to be asleep, his wasted frame swallowed up in the expanse of white linen. Like most Chinese, he'd never been a big man. Slender, delicate, and beautiful, Bobbie had been the darling of the gay crowd in Provincetown in his younger days. Even now, more than ten years older, that ethereal beauty hadn't entirely deserted him. But I'd seen the sunken cheeks and dark-rimmed eyes, the prominent facial bones and pale skin, on too many of my other friends who had died this way. The oxygen cannula running under his nose and the IV dripping into his arm didn't inspire confidence and hope either, but only bore silent witness to his present struggle with pneumonia.

I'd had an AIDS test not long ago and had come out negative, so I knew I was probably okay. But that's purely the luck of the draw. It could just as easily have been me in that bed instead of Bobbie. For all too many years I had been careless. We all were, back then. No one had heard of AIDS. All we knew was that the sexual revolution had finally arrived and we were going to make the best of it. But, as usual, the shadow followed hard on the heels of the light. Far too many erstwhile flower children are now pushing up the flowers instead of wearing them in their hair. And it doesn't look as if it's going to stop anytime soon.

Trying to keep my hand from shaking, I brushed the hair back off Bobbie's forehead, leaned down, and kissed him.

He opened those beautiful black eyes, coughed a few times, then stared at me blearily.

"Hi, kiddo," I said.

He blinked and looked at me again as recognition dawned.

"Jeremy?"

"Live and in person," I replied.

How can I tell you where our conversation went from there? It was difficult for Bobbie to talk at all, since it started him coughing. I couldn't stay long, because I knew Kevin would be needing my help with a difficult patient we had coming, despite what he had said. I left Bobbie with another kiss and a promise to come back again later.

He managed a smile and a tentative wave as I left the room, while I choked back the tears I had no time to shed just then.


But when my shift ended that afternoon, Bobbie's room wasn't my first stop. Instead, I left County General and went to look for Kwai Chang Caine. Even though we'd spent some time together a few years ago and I'd just recently run across him again, I don't exactly hang out with Caine. He has his life and I have mine. But sometimes I'd see him at the hospital, and we got together now and then.

As I hurried anxiously up the stairs to his rooftop apartment, I tried to convince myself that there was hope. I'd heard stories about some of the cures Caine had effected and I knew how he'd fixed me up a couple of times while we had traveled across the country together, so I figured there might be something he could do.

I wasn't even sure he'd be home, since he doesn't have a phone, but I found him sitting on that platform in his workroom, a large leather-bound book open in his lap. He was already looking in my direction when I came in the door.

"You are -- upset?" It wasn't really a question, despite the intonation.

"Yeah, you might say that."

"What is wrong?"

Hitching myself up on the edge of the platform next to him, I explained about Bobbie.

He sighed and closed his eyes briefly, then put one hand on my shoulder. "I cannot cure AIDS, Jeremy."

Maybe he was just saying that because he didn't want me to get my hopes up too high. "But surely you can do something?" I persisted.

"Perhaps. We must go and -- talk to him."

But we hadn't even gotten off the platform when Caine's son came barging through the doorway. "Hi, Pop," he began. "Listen, I've got to talk to you about -- uh, hello, Jeremy. What are you doing here?"

I didn't know Peter too well at this time, but he hadn't exactly taken to me. I think it made him uncomfortable to see his father with a gay guy, although I assure you there was absolutely nothing for him to worry about. (Caine was obviously straight. I don't come on to straight guys, no matter how I may feel about them. But it took Peter a long time to get that through his head.)

Be that as it may, he didn't much like me. Looking at it from the other direction, how did I feel about Peter? If I said envy, would you understand? The boy had Caine's heart, in a way I never could.

Anyway, I figured he wanted to talk to his father privately. "I can wait outside," I offered, trying to be helpful.

"No," Peter said. "Actually, I was looking for you. I just figured Pop -- uh -- Dad would be able to help me get up with you."

Peter Caine looking for me? Will wonders never cease?

"What -- is the problem?" Caine asked.

The boy glanced at me, glanced at his father, then kind of looked at neither of us. "Uh -- I -- I'm not sure -- I --"

Caine tipped his head to one side as he suggested, "Perhaps -- I -- should wait outside?"

"No." Peter propped himself against the edge of a table, almost knocking a tray of dried mushrooms onto the floor in the process. He never did meet my eyes as he explained, "I need some advice. About a murder case."

"From me?"

"Yeah. I figured you might -- know something about -- some of the -- things that are involved."

Oh, great! Something bothered the kid so much that he was starting to talk like his father. This couldn't be good.

"Peter," Caine suggested with a slight smile, "it would help if you could be -- less cryptic?"

"Yeah. Okay." Taking a deep breath, he started over. "There have been three very nasty murders in the last couple of months and I think I'm seeing a pattern here. They seem to be connected to snuff films --" he looked directly at me this time -- "and the victims have all been drag queens." His eyes flickered over to his father. "Whoever's behind all this seems to have a preference for certain ethnic types, since they were all Chinese. In addition to the coroner's reports, I saw one of the films, and one of the bodies."

His voice was actually shaking now. If a cop was shocked, it must have been pretty bad.

"You -- uh -- don't want to know what they did to these guys before they died," he went on, carefully inspecting the brick floor in front of his feet.

But I could fairly well tell at least a part of what they'd done from the expression on his face. It was the same look men get when you mention the name of John Wayne Bobbitt -- kind of like they want to grab their crotch just to make sure everything's still there.

Caine broke the uncomfortable silence. "Why do you think Jeremy could -- help you with this?"

Peter was on firmer ground here.

"Well, he's into the gay scene. Maybe he'd know about the victims, or where they'd be likely to hang out, or something like that? No one seems too anxious to talk to the law."

"Can you blame them? The cops have seldom been on our side. There are still states where it's illegal just to be gay, for pity's sake!"

Caine looked at me, raising one eyebrow slightly at my vehemence. Well, okay. Maybe I was overreacting a little. I backed off.

"Sorry, Peter. Look, I'll be glad to do what I can, but I need to know more about this. First off, what makes you so sure your victims are drag queens?"

"They're dressed in women's clothes when we find them, and also in the one movie I've seen. And I've been able to get enough info out of their friends to know that this is nothing unusual for them."

"Okay. But there are lots of transvestites, and even some professional female impersonators, who're just as straight as you are."

"I just assumed --" His voice trailed off. "Okay, I shouldn't assume," he finished, somewhat sheepishly.

Now that I'd made my point, I didn't belabor it.

"Well, there's one club in town that caters to cross-dressers, gay, straight, or otherwise," I suggested.

Now it was his turn to surprise me by saying, "Yeah, I know that."

"Oh?"

"We have -- been there," Caine explained.

"And we're not too interested in going again," Peter interjected vehemently. "Are we, Pop?"

Caine shrugged. Peter looked uncomfortable again. In fact, I do believe he might have been blushing. By now I was real curious about what they'd been up to at that particular place, but I decided this would not be the best time to ask.

"So what can I do that you can't do, Peter?" I inquired.

"Talk to people. Listen for rumors. Try to get me a handle on what's happening and who's behind it."

I nodded, considering his request rather half-heartedly. I really wasn't all that much involved with the gay community these days. Since I'd come here several years ago, I'd been too busy with other things, like x-ray school and my new job, to spend much time hanging out in bars. And just now I had other more pressing things on my mind, things like Bobbie.

Peter must have seen my hesitation. "If I can't get a lead on this, the department will brush the whole thing under the rug, the way they did with the previous victims. Then, sooner or later, we'll find another mutilated body. I don't want that to happen."

"Why not? It's just a bunch of perverts and freaks who are being offed. Why should you care?" I was deliberately baiting him. I'm good at that. But I had my reasons.

He stood up abruptly and started for the door. "All right! If you don't give a damn about helping your own people, then I guess I'm wasting my time. Forget it!"

"Peter." Caine spoke softly, as always, but it was enough to stop his son's headlong flight from the room. "You must learn to listen to the words which lie -- beneath the words spoken aloud. Jeremy -- did not say he would not help. He merely wishes to know why you are pursuing this investigation -- when most of your superiors would probably agree with the remark he just made."

Damn! You'd think I'd be used to the way Caine does that, but it never fails to take me by surprise. He claims he can't read minds, but I've got my doubts.

Be that as it may, I could almost see Peter's feathers unruffle at his father's words.

"That true, Jeremy?" he asked, still standing in the doorway.

"Yeah," I admitted. By now I was feeling rather sorry I had gotten him so riled up. Maybe I'm too suspicious, where cops are concerned. I spread my hands in a mollifying gesture. "Look, Peter, I'll do what I can to help, okay? I can't guarantee I'll find out anything useful, but I'll keep my ears open. I don't want to see anyone else killed, even if they are --" and I smiled enough to take the sting out of my words -- "only drag queens."

"Okay, great." He ran one hand nervously through his already disarranged dark hair. "I've got to get back to the precinct. You know where to find me, if you need me."

I nodded. He was gone as quickly as he'd come, leaving Caine and me to proceed at a more leisurely pace to the hospital to see Bobbie. Caine insisted on walking, even though he still limped slightly from that bullet wound he'd gotten a little over a month ago now. (But that's another story and I've told you about that already, haven't I?)

Bobbie wasn't exactly overjoyed with the visitor I brought him, especially when I explained why he was there.

"Oh come on, Jeremy. Herbs to cure AIDS? You've got to be kidding. I've already tried everything the doctors have available."

"So why not try this? It couldn't hurt," I suggested.

Bobbie glared at me.

"I -- do not think I can cure you," Caine said carefully, "but I can perhaps -- help -- a little."

Bobbie really looked at him then, taking in the long hair, dark blue Chinese-type shirt, and not very Chinese-type face.

"Are you for real?"

Caine looked down at himself, as if he were checking to make sure. "I -- believe so, yes."

"What the hell are you anyway?" Bobbie demanded.

"I am a Shaolin priest," the other man said quietly.

"No."

Caine shrugged.

Bobbie grabbed Caine's left wrist and pushed his sleeve up far enough to see part of the dragon symbol on his arm.

"Shit, you're serious," he said incredulously. Then he started to cough.

"I -- am usually serious," Caine replied, sitting down on the edge of the bed and resting both hands lightly on Bobbie's chest.

Whatever he did, it worked. The coughing fit subsided. Bobbie sank back against his pillows, still short of breath. He readjusted the oxygen cannula under his nose.

"All I want is to live until February 21. After that, it doesn't matter," he said weakly.

Caine asked the question before I could. "What happens on -- that date?"

"We'll have a display of the AIDS Quilt at the Chinatown Community Center. You do know what the Quilt is, don't you?"

"I have -- heard of it."

"But you've never seen it, right?"

When Caine shook his head, Bobbie went on. "Neither have most of the people in our community. Chinatown's pretty old-fashioned about this kind of stuff, but it's time they started to learn. Past time, actually, now that AIDS has spread into the general population, especially among the young folks. The Quilt can be a powerful tool for education. It has quite an impact on people --"

He'd been talking too long. Another fit of coughing seized him. As Caine touched him again and worked his magic, I sat on the other side of the bed and took Bobbie's hand.

"Okay, it's important and all that," I said as his coughing slackened off. "But why do you care so much about this one particular display? I should think you'd have other things to worry about at this point, kiddo."

"You don't understand," he replied with a hint of desperation in his cracking voice. "It was my idea to bring the Quilt here. I organized the committee and everything. We've been working on making this happen for months, and it's finally set up. I want to see it before I die."

"You're not going to die," I protested.

"Come off it, Jeremy. I've got AIDS. Once it reaches this stage, there's no other way it ends except in death."

"Is not that how all life ends?" Caine interjected mildly.

"That's easy for you to say, priest. You're not dying."

Caine shrugged again and said mildly, "We are all -- dying."

Bobbie glared at him. "Look, if you can do anything to help me, fine. If not, spare me the cliches. Okay?"

"I will do -- what I can," Caine said, taking no notice of the insult.

"I just want to get well enough to go home for awhile. I'm so sick of hospitals."

"Is there anyone at home to care for you?" Caine inquired. "Family?"

Bobbie looked away, so I explained quickly, "His family disowned him years ago for being gay. Like Chinatown, they're -- kind of old-fashioned."

"Yeah. That's one way to put it," Bobbie interjected. "As long as I pretended otherwise, they were happy to go along. But when I came right out and told them -- well, Jeremy was there. He knows how it was."

Yeah, I knew. But most of the screaming had been in Chinese, so I hadn't gotten anymore than an overall impression of what was being said. Up until that night, they'd all been pretty nice to me too. Oh well.

"Where are you living now?" I asked.

He mentioned an address unfamiliar to me. I glanced a question at Caine. "Chinatown, not far from the hospital," he offered.

Bobbie nodded in confirmation. A thought occurred to me, but I wasn't sure I should even put it into words. I decided to take the chance.

"Tell you what, kiddo. You get well enough to go home and I'll move in with you for a while and kind of look out for you. How does that sound?"

Bobbie studied my carefully-nonchalant face. "Haven't you got your own place?"

"Nothing but a rented room. I've been wanting to live closer to where I work anyway. You'd be doing me a favor."

I could see that he still wasn't too sure about my proposal. Considering all the shit that had gone down between us when we'd broken up years ago, I didn't exactly blame him. But things were different now. Or at least I hoped they could be.

"Let me think about it, okay?"

"First, you must get better," Caine said, as if it had been decided.

Bobbie actually smiled.


A week later, he was able to go home from the hospital. Perhaps due to Caine's ministrations, the pneumonia had eased off and he felt strong enough to manage more or less on his own, although the pneumonia had damaged his lungs to the point where he was constantly short of breath. He was on oxygen for a lot of the time also. Much to my delight, he accepted my offer to move in.

Bobbie had one of the downstairs apartments in a row of two-story brick buildings running along the side of a small park. It was a few blocks from the really busy section of Chinatown, so things were relatively quiet. On nice days, we could look out the front windows and see children playing in the park. There was even a concrete pool, but it had no water at this time of year. It would probably be rather pretty come spring.

The building was old, with large, high-ceilinged rooms, built in a day when space wasn't at such a premium and heating costs weren't a major consideration. I took over the spare bedroom. Compared to the small furnished room I'd been living in, this was spaciousness to the point of luxury.

Having someone else to share the rent was a big help for Bobbie, who had already used up most of his savings for medical expenses. He'd sold his life insurance too, as many AIDS patients do. That's become a thriving business these days, although something about it leaves a bad taste in my mouth.


I tried to play it very cool at first. I was the compassionate nurse and helpful housekeeper, tending to all the shopping and the more strenuous tasks while letting Bobbie do whatever he felt strong enough to attempt, which wasn't much.

Then came the night when I polished the Buddha.

Like many Chinese, Bobbie had this sort of altar or shrine-like thing. The specific items found on such family altars might vary considerably, but it was a fairly common feature of many oriental homes. Caine had one, in that room he generally used for meditation. Bobbie's had a statue of the Buddha, but even that wasn't mandatory. As a general thing, the Chinese seem to be more easy-going about religion than most Westerners. Buddhism, Confucianism, Taoism, and leftover bits and pieces of more ancient beliefs coexist in a sort of eclectic stew. People feel pretty free to borrow from these various systems, without considering them to be mutually exclusive. Of course, there's also a generous helping of ignorance and just plain old superstition stirred into the mix, but isn't that the case everywhere?

At any rate, Bobbie had never been overly religious, but he'd always had one of these little altars, so I wasn't surprised to find one in the living room of my new quarters. What did surprise me was that this one appeared sadly neglected. A layer of dust covered everything. No fresh flowers filled the vases and the little brass pot had no sticks of incense poking up at odd angles. Even the candles were dusty, which indicated how long it had been since they had been lit. Well, that was understandable. Bobbie had been in the hospital for the last couple of weeks, after all.

I decided it was high time to atone for my room mate's neglect. I came home from work one day with a bunch of carnations from a street vendor and set about making things right. I dusted everything off and filled the two small vases with red and white flowers.

I was in the process of applying wood polish to the Buddha when Bobbie came out of his bedroom.

"Jeremy, what the hell do you think you're doing?"

I had expected a somewhat more positive comment on my handiwork, but maybe he was just in a bad mood after his nap.

"Cleaning this stuff up," I replied carefully, still polishing. "Why? Is there a problem?"

"Yeah. This is none of your business."

"Bobbie --"

"Damn it, Jeremy, I didn't ask you to touch my things!"

I set the Buddha gently back in his place on the altar before answering. "It needed cleaning up."

"Yeah. And I suppose the next thing I know you'll be lighting incense too, huh?"

"Well, the thought had crossed my mind," I admitted. "The altar looked pretty neglected."

"Did it ever occur to you that maybe there's a reason for that? That maybe I don't care about all this nonsense anymore?"

"Don't say that."

"Why not? What good has it ever done me? I'm still going to die. Why offer flowers and incense to someone who's been dead for over two thousand years? What does it matter?"

"You always told me it was the ideas that mattered, not the person," I objected, thoroughly taken aback by his vehemence.

"None of it matters, damn it! None of it! Do you hear me?"

So saying, Bobbie swept everything off the altar with one hand. Flowers went flying as the vases hit the bare wood of the floor. One vase broke, scattering ceramic bits of blue and white halfway across the room. My lovingly-polished Buddha ended up face down in a puddle of water.

Bobbie stomped back into his room and slammed the door, leaving me staring after him in shock.

I rescued the Buddha and returned him once again to his place. Ignoring the rest of the mess, I went over to Bobbie's door. I could hear him crying. That made up my mind as to what to do next. I opened the door, went into the room and sat down next to him on the bed.

He lay facing the wall, curled up into a ball and sobbing. Not sure what his reaction might be, I nevertheless put my hands on his shoulders and rubbed them gently.

"Okay, kiddo. What was that all about?" I asked.

For the second time that night, Bobbie took me completely by surprise. He turned around into my arms, clinging to my shirt and crying against my chest.

"It's just so fucking hopeless, Jeremy," he said between sobs. "I'm scared out of my mind. I don't want to die, especially like this, without any reason."

What could I say to that? Each time I had tried to cheer him up with encouraging words, he had ignored me. Words obviously wouldn't do it. I just laid back on the bed, holding him next to me until his crying stopped. Finally, he gave a huge sigh and snuggled closer into my arms.

"It's been ages since anyone so much as touched me," he said at last. "In the hospital, they wear gloves all the time and act as if I'm a one-man plague epidemic. I really can't blame them. I guess I am, in a way, and they've got to be careful."

"Bobbie, my love, I'll never be afraid to touch you," I whispered, kissing the top of his head.

"You mean that? Really?"

"Yeah, kiddo. I mean it."

Well, I suppose you can guess where we went from there, can't you?

There are only a few ways you can get AIDS, and sex, gay or straight, is one of them. But what could I do? Bobbie was the man I had loved the most in all my life. I couldn't let him think I would no longer make love to him.

Of course, some things carry a greater risk than others, so Bobbie and I were very careful about what we did. But, condoms not withstanding, there is not now, and has never been, such a thing as truly safe sex, even before AIDS. And that's especially true for women, who have historically died in vast numbers giving birth to children. Think about it.

How much risk is acceptable to you, folks? At what point will you stop driving your car because there's a very real possibility that you could get into an accident? When do you stop taking a shower because you might slip and fall in the tub? Where is the line between being reasonably prudent and being foolhardy? I guess that's something we all have to decide for ourselves.

But let's look at it from another angle. Think of whatever it is that's your own personal favorite sexual activity. No, don't tell me what it is. That doesn't matter. Now bring to mind the one person in all the world you would most like to do it with. Imagine that one person lying naked on your bed, ready, willing, and able to make your fondest wishes come true.

Got the picture? Great. Think about it for a while. Dwell on how terrific it would be, until you're so turned on you can hardly stand it.

Now imagine that dream partner is HIV+. What would you do next? Not what should you do, but what would you do?

See what I mean? The choice isn't all that easy sometimes, is it?

Did I love Bobbie? I mean, really love him? Or was it just memories of another day, another time, when I was -- well, younger, if not exactly young. And Bobbie was beautiful and carefree, and we were gay and out and proud.

I don't know. Sometimes I wonder if I'm even capable of love. It never seems to work out, at any rate. To me, love doesn't mean never having to say you're sorry. And it doesn't mean forever. It means something even worse: it means every day, and that scares the shit out of me. I've never been very good at every day. But, for Bobbie, I would have been willing to give it a try.


What with my job and taking care of Bobbie, I didn't have much time during the next few weeks to try to dig up clues for Peter. Oh yes, I did go to that cross-dressers' club a couple of times and talk to some folks, but it wasn't my usual hangout and I didn't know many people. I heard a few things: rumors, names mentioned in passing, that sort of stuff, but nothing real definite. Nevertheless, I dutifully passed each tidbit on to Peter, hoping he could make something of it.

All the victims had apparently been adequate but not overly elaborate drag queens. None of them were professional female impersonators, and they were all on the far side of thirty. Coupled with the fact that they were Chinese, Peter thought this pointed in the direction of movies slanted toward a rather specific audience. Of course, the victims might also have simply been the only ones unfortunate, or desperate, enough to have been lured into the murderer's clutches, perhaps by the promise of payment. Assuming they had even been asked ahead of time about appearing in a movie, it was a pretty sure bet they hadn't realized the exact nature of this movie until it was already too late.

Every day or two, Caine or Lo Si would drop by to check on Bobbie. (You know Lo Si, don't you? Sure you do. If you know Caine, you must know the Ancient also.) I couldn't tell you exactly what they did or what was in the stuff they brought him to drink. All I know is that it seemed to be working. Maybe he wasn't getting a lot better, but at least he wasn't getting any worse. That was a victory of sorts.

Throughout most of this time, I felt a sense of emotional deadness. On the surface, I had convinced myself that Bobbie wouldn't die. Caine would work a miracle and my long lost lover and I would live happily ever after. But somewhere deep down, a part of me knew better and closed my feelings off. I stumbled through those precious days like a determinedly cheerful zombie. I did my job, but without the previous sense of enthusiasm that had made it interesting to me. I went home to Bobbie, and tried to tell myself we were happy and all was well.

But an invisible demon sat on my shoulder and whispered in my ear, "Fool! Stupid blind fool!" And his message was all the more unnerving because I could not see him, and therefore could not recognize him for what he was.

It was almost as if part of me was wrapped in cotton, insulated against the world. If I couldn't care, then I wouldn't hurt when Bobbie died. I was distancing myself from everything. Outwardly, I continued to function. But inside, something was perpetually on hold, braced against a shock I couldn't even admit had to come.

So I was loving and sweet to Bobbie -- and it was not an act. I truly did care. How could I not? But somewhere inside, the cotton was wrapped tightly around my heart -- so tightly that I never even felt the blood oozing out.

And then it came time for the Quilt to be put on display at the Community Center. Bobbie was in reasonably good shape. He had even been able to attend some of the committee meetings, but he tired easily. When the big day arrived, he wasn't up to helping with the physical work of unloading the Quilt panels and setting up the space, but after resting all morning, he felt strong enough to attend the opening ceremony that afternoon. I insisted he go in his wheelchair, although he didn't want to.

I was pushing him up the access ramp at the side door of the Center when Caine and Lo Si appeared unexpectedly alongside us. Caine took the wheelchair and maneuvered it deftly up the ramp and into the building with the practiced ease of a trained nurse, while the Ancient handed Bobbie another one of his bottled potions to drink.

"We didn't expect to see you two here," Bobbie said, speaking for both of us.

"We would not miss it for the world," Lo Si replied in his strangely-accented English.

We'd barely gotten inside when Peter arrived, accompanied by an attractive dark-haired young woman that he introduced as his partner, Detective Mary Margaret Skalany. If I hadn't expected Caine and the Ancient, I had certainly not expected Peter. Although I didn't mean to be rude, I'm afraid I was too distracted by my concern ever Bobbie's well-being to do much more than mumble, "Pleased to meet you," in the general direction of Peter's partner as we all moved into the main room with the rest of the crowd.

For those of you who may not know, the AIDS Memorial Quilt isn't really a quilt at all. It's made up of separate sections of fabric consisting of eight individual panels sewn together. Each section measures twelve feet by twelve feet and usually contains panels from the same region of the country. The entire thing is too large now to be routinely displayed in one place, since it measures almost fifteen city blocks, but bits and pieces of it get sent to many locations.

Altogether, we had nine of these 12 x 12 sections laid out on the floor, folded up. The visitors filed into the room, crowding along the walls to watch the opening ceremony. In utter silence, a group of white-clad monitors went to each section in turn, walked around it into their prescribed positions, took hold of the corners, unfolded the fabric, lifted it up high, then laid it down on the floor. When all the sections had been thus spread out, a woman went up on stage and took the microphone. I wasn't paying a whole lot of attention as she welcomed everyone and explained that they would be reading aloud the names of people who had died of AIDS during the entire time of the display. I was too busy looking around the room.

After the welcome speech was over, I pushed Bobbie slowly around as we examined the various fabric panels. Perhaps it was not surprising that the hall was hushed and very quiet, despite the crowd. Now and then, someone would recognize Bobbie, come over and say a few words or give him a hug. Caine and Lo Si trailed along slightly behind us, with Peter and his partner not far away. There was something about the entire thing that discouraged casual conversation. People stood silently reading names and staring at the decorated panels.

In many ways, this is the Vietnam Wall of the gay community. (And there are actually more names now on the Quilt than on the Wall.) Visitors bring flowers or other tokens to leave on the panels of lost friends or relatives. Boxes of tissues are set in strategic locations.

Just looking at the Quilt is an awesome and sobering experience.

We have made our gravestones of a more lasting substance than granite or marble. We have made them of fabric and love and simple mementos, and set them before the world, to bear witness to the enormity of our loss and the humanity of our lost.

What else could we do?


As Bobbie and I went from panel to panel, I tried hard not to cry, not to feel. But it was impossible.

I couldn't acknowledge the truth: that my Bobbie would someday soon be nothing but a name on a piece of fabric. I couldn't look that fact square in the face then.

But the tears ran down my cheeks even so, and I stopped to take a tissue from one of the boxes, wiping my nose and cleaning the moisture off my glasses.

"Give me one too," Bobbie requested.

I held the box out to my lover, staying carefully behind the wheelchair so he couldn't see my face.

Bobbie blew his nose, then turned to look at me and asked calmly, "Will you make a panel for me when I'm dead?"

"Don't talk like that. You're doing fine."

"Jeremy, damnit, face the facts!" he hissed.

"I'll make one if you want me to," I replied grudgingly.

"I do."

"Then I will, kiddo. I promise."


Shortly after that, I insisted we leave, since Bobbie seemed to be tiring. Caine caught up to us at the exit.

"I -- will help you get home, if you wish," he offered.

"Thanks. My car's parked around the corner. I'll go get it, if you'll stay here with Bobbie."

Caine nodded.

"By the way, where's the Ancient?" I asked as I dug under my coat and searched through my hip pocket for my car keys.

Caine inclined his head in the direction of the stage, where Lo Si was just now taking his place at the podium. "He has -- volunteered to read some of the names."

That old guy never fails to surprise me.


We had just about gotten Bobbie settled in the back seat of my car and stowed his wheelchair in the trunk when Peter came hurrying out of the building.

"Hold on a minute. I've got to talk to you," he said.

"We are taking Bobbie home," his father replied, as he folded himself into the front seat. "Meet us there, if you wish to talk."

"But Pop --"

"A cold and windy street corner is not the place for an important discussion, my son."

"How'd you know it was important?"

Caine shrugged, as if the answer should be obvious.

Peter raised both hands in a gesture of surrender. "Okay, I give up. Give me a minute to tell Skalany I'm leaving and then I'll follow you there."

Caine nodded shortly and rolled the window up.


"I think we have a suspect," Peter began, following us up the half dozen steps that led to the front door. When Bobbie's knees gave out as he struggled out of the car, Caine had simply lifted him and carried him up the stairs, while I went ahead to unlock the door. Unlike some folks around a person with AIDS, Caine had never hesitated to touch Bobbie, when necessary.

Caine turned and indicated the open trunk of my car with a brief lift of his chin. "The wheelchair, Peter."

"Huh? Oh. Okay, Pop. I'll get it."


"Trouble is," Peter went on, once we were all settled in the living room, "right now it's nothing but rumors. I've got no hard evidence, and certainly nothing to warrant an arrest."

"So what have you got?" I asked.

"Hints that a drag queen who goes by the name of Alice Silber is somehow involved with the killings. She's been known to hang out at that club, and she's been seen with the victims."

I nodded. I had heard the name once or twice myself. I was mildly surprised that Peter had used the feminine pronoun when referring to his suspect. Most straight folks kind of fumble around, trying to figure out if they should use "he" or "she" for a man in drag.

"If these rumors are loud enough that you've heard them," I pointed out, "I'll lay odds she's finding it pretty tough to recruit new prospects about now."

"If she recruits them at all," Bobbie put in. "It's quite possible the victims are simply kidnapped, isn't it?"

"For all we know, yeah. But this is the only lead I've got."

Bobbie frowned. "Well, it doesn't sound like much. You need someone to come forward who's actually been approached."

"Can you not send in an -- undercover agent?" Caine suggested.

That sounded good to me. "Maybe Alice could be tricked into saying or doing something that would give you a definite lead? Especially if you recorded what went on?"

"Well, yeah."

We were all staring at Peter now. His father had even raised one eyebrow slightly, as if he were asking a question.

"Hey, wait a minute! Don't look at me that way! I couldn't --"

"Why not?" Bobbie asked. "You've got kind of a pretty face. With the right makeup --"

"No way! No! Not!"

"Nah, Bobbie," I said, breaking up the gag. "He'd never be convincing. Look at how red his face is getting just from thinking about it."

"I guess you've got a point there. He'd never be able to carry it off."

"You guys have been putting me on, right?" Peter said.

He calmed down enough to smile as Bobbie and I nodded in unison. "Okay, all kidding aside, we still haven't gotten past square one. I have no way to confirm my suspicions. The precinct's not exactly overflowing with guys qualified to pose convincingly as female impersonators, even if the powers that be were willing to give this case high priority, which they're not."

I caught Bobbie's eye. He gave a fractional nod of his head.

"Uh --" I began, wondering if I would regret this later on, "that's not a problem."

"What do you mean?"

"Tell you what, Pete: you go get a bugging device and meet us back here in a few hours. I think I can find you a volunteer to act as bait on this little fishing expedition, as long as it doesn't have to be a cop."

"I was hoping you'd know somebody --"

"Yeah. You just get lost for a while and let me work on this, okay?"

"Right. I'll go see if I can wangle Blake into getting me the electronics, kind of off the record, you know?"

I guess it would have to be off the record, if a civilian was going to be involved.

That got Peter out of our hair. Now what was I going to do about Caine? He was parked comfortably on the couch and showed no signs of wanting to move.

"Don't you have somewhere you'd like to go for a while?" I asked, hoping he'd take the hint.

He shook his head and smiled slightly. "I have seen -- female impersonators -- and I wish to know how it is done."

"How'd you know what we've got planned?"

"Is it not --" He shrugged and spread his hands -- "obvious?"

Okay, so he stayed and watched. I'm not above indulging someone's curiosity, if it comes from a genuine interest.

It took Bobbie almost three hours to make me into a woman, but the results were worth it. Now, I don't make a habit of this, but I've been in drag a couple of times before, in my younger days, so I know how it's done. Of course, it's harder at my age, but at least I'm not very tall and I'm reasonably slender. That helps. My bifocals are in fairly unisex frames, which also helps. I'd be entirely unable to function without them.

Contrary to popular belief, not all of the men who dress up as women actually want to be women. As I had once pointed out to Peter, quite a few transvestites aren't even gay. Of course, there are also folks who truly would prefer to be of the opposite sex. I'm not one of them, and neither was Bobbie.

By now I'll bet you've got my Bobbie pegged as a hairdresser or fashion designer or some other equally swishy occupation. Sorry, but when he was well enough to work, he was a painter. You're probably thinking artist, right? Easel and palette, maybe a French beret? Nay. Bobbie painted houses for a living. He was damn good at it too.

But he was also damn good at clothes and makeup. He trimmed and styled my hair, which was fortunately rather long at the time, and dyed it black, then fixed me up to look about half oriental, since this Silber person seemed to have a preference for ethnic types. The shape of my face was wrong to be full Chinese, but by the time Bobbie was done with me, I could have passed for someone with mixed blood. Add to that one of those Chinese dresses with a slit up the side in a lovely shade of pale green, plus a long-sleeved lacy white sweater, and the illusion was pretty good.

Of course, I was way too old to look like the gorgeous young thing I used to be, but I made a reasonably attractive older woman. Since all of the other victims had been a bit overage, I figured it would work all right. Unless you have just the right kind of face and body, you're better off not trying to look too glamorous anyway. Bobbie, on the other hand, truly did have the delicate features and slender body that looked great in drag. But he wasn't in any condition to do what I intended to do.

Meanwhile, Caine seemed to find the entire process quite fascinating. He kept unobtrusively out of Bobbie's way, but I could see that he was watching us intently. When he finally spoke up, I was perched on the edge of the bed as Bobbie sat in his wheelchair applying polish to my fake nails.

"You will need -- a name."

"Got any suggestions?"

"I think -- Jade Cheng would suit you."

I tried it on for size. "Jade Cheng. Yeah. I like it."

The doorbell rang. Caine rose to his feet. "That is probably my son. I will answer it. We would not want you to -- ruin your fingernails, would we?"

He was in the other room before I could figure out if he'd been making a joke.


Bobbie took one last look to check me over. Satisfied, he nodded. I was ready to get up and go inside when he stopped me with a hand on my arm. "I want you to wear my grandmother's ring tonight. For luck."

For as long as I'd known him, Bobbie had worn that ring on his right middle finger. It was jade; just a narrow band with intertwined dragons intricately carved into its surface. I'd never seen him take it off, but now he was twisting at it, trying to squeeze it over his knuckle.

"You'll hurt yourself," I cautioned.

"No, it's okay. I've lost a lot of weight. It'll come off."

It did, and he held it out to me.

"Bobbie, I can't. What if I lose it or something?"

"Take it, damn it!" he said vehemently. "I want you to."

"Okay, kiddo. Don't get all bent out of shape." Still reluctant, I picked up the ring. The only one of my fingers it would fit was the one where a wedding band was supposed to go. I held out my hand, fingers spread the way a woman does when she examines her fingernails. Combined with my fake red nails, the effect was rather nice. But I felt awfully uncomfortable wearing Bobbie's only family heirloom.

"Bobbie, I really don't want --"

"Shush. Come on. It's time to greet our guests."

"Guests? It's only Peter."

"I thought I heard the Ancient's voice too. Didn't you?"

Truth to tell, I hadn't been listening. But it wouldn't surprise me. Lo Si had Caine's habit of appearing unexpectedly when something was going on.

Bobbie insisted on getting out of the wheelchair. I strolled into the living room on his arm.

Peter's mouth dropped open and didn't close again for the next couple of minutes. At least that meant he kept quiet.

Bobbie had been right about Lo Si. The old man stood just inside the door. Fixing my gaze on the Ancient, I inclined my head in what I hoped was a demure gesture of respect and smiled, looking at him from under my mascara eyelashes.

He came over and gave me a severely appraising inspection from all angles before finally saying, "Jeremy, that is bloody marvelous."

"Xie-xie," I replied graciously, using my little bit of Chinese to thank him. Then I dropped the act, reverting to my normal tone of voice. "Glad you like it."

Lo Si just smiled. From the gleam in his eyes, I almost thought he'd have asked me out on a date, if he hadn't known what I really was.

Peter finally closed his mouth, but only long enough to open it again. "I don't believe this," he said.

"You ought to try it sometime," I told him. "Gives you a whole new perspective on being a man." Although I had directed that remark to Peter, it was his father who answered.

"I -- may," Caine said thoughtfully. Not exactly what I expected. But then, when does he ever say what you expect him to?

"Pop!" Peter protested.

Caine held up his hand to forestall any further comments from that direction. "Jeremy, are you sure you can do this well enough to fool everyone? To be a woman is -- more -- than just clothing and makeup."

He was all too right about that, as any good drag queen knows. You have to have the gestures, the mannerisms, the movements, the voice, and all those other things that society has chosen as gender cues. If you overdid it, you would be too obvious. But if you couldn't do it, you wouldn't fool anyone, despite the best makeup in the world and the most stunning outfit. It's amazing how very much of gender is nothing but a role, a costume, a part one chooses to play.

"Yeah," Peter said grudgingly. "If you blow it, Alice will know someone's on to her."

I walked over to where he sat perched on the edge of a table. Running a carefully manicured red fingernail along the edge of his jaw, I said in my best strong-and-competent-woman voice, "Don't worry about me, baby. I'll make out just fine."

He jumped up from the table and retreated backwards in red-faced confusion. "Jeez, Jeremy, don't do that, huh?"

I laughed daintily.

"So what did you come up with for a bug?" Bobbie asked, bringing us back to the business at hand.

Peter pulled a little round black thing out of his pocket. "This will pick up everything that's said and transmit it to the recorder in the car." He glanced at his father and the Ancient. "I borrowed one of the unmarked sedans from the precinct, since my car is pretty small and I figured you two would insist on coming along."

"I want to be there too," Bobbie said.

"Uh -- Do you think that's really a good idea?" Peter asked dubiously.

"Why not? It's not like this is dangerous or anything, right? Jeremy's only going to talk to this Alice person and try to get you more info."

"Kiddo, you should stay here and rest," I objected. "It's getting late."

"No way."

I recognized the look in his eyes and knew I had already lost the argument. Bobbie can be pretty stubborn when he wants to be. In the end, Peter agreed to let him come along. I was to drive my own car to the club, while the others followed and parked not too far away in the sedan.

I placed Peter's bug inside my generously-padded bra for safe keeping, then wrapped myself in a heavy wool shawl against the cold night air, for lack of a proper woman's coat.

When we were all set, the Ancient came over and offered me his arm.

"Shall we go, my dear?" he asked.

Although I was very tempted to give him a kiss on the cheek, I figured that might be overdoing things a little. So I just took his arm and walked out with him.


Less than an hour later, I sat primly at one of the small tables, sipping now and again at my strawberry daiquiri and pretending to a detached interest in the floor show at the far side of the room. So far nothing had happened, but the night was still young. I had the dubious advantage of being the only oriental-looking person in the club, even though it was only Bobbie's make-up.

It's hard enough pretending to be a woman, but trying to simultaneously telegraph the fact that you're really a man pretending to be a woman is even harder. However, in these particular surroundings, almost no one was what he (or she) seemed.

I had decided my best bet was to act as if I were new at this: a little shy, nervous, maybe even in drag for the first time. That might cover up the very real nervousness I felt, sitting there hoping to attract the attention of a murderer. I had just about decided I was wasting my time when a waiter appeared at my table with a fresh daiquiri, saying it had been bought by someone who would very much like to meet me. Of course, it didn't have to be our quarry. It could have been a simple pick-up attempt. Smiling graciously, I accepted the drink and asked that my unknown benefactor come to my table.

A drag queen bearing a definite resemblance to Dolly Parton strolled over on the arm of a ruggedly-handsome young man.

I lifted my glass and indicated the empty chairs at my table. "Please join me. And thank you for the drink."

"Think nothing of it, my dear," the blonde said, in a voice that sounded quite feminine. She was very convincing, despite being a touch overdressed for my taste. And the cleavage certainly looked real. Probably implants.

"I don't believe I've seen you here before," she went on. "Are you new in town?"

I lowered my eyes demurely. "Yes. I heard about this place, and thought it sounded interesting."

"Oh, it is. Very interesting." She studied me for a moment, then glanced at her silent companion. "Allow me to welcome you to town, my dear. My name is Alice, and my friend here is called Carl."

My heart skipped a beat. I gave her my name, still trying to sound like the shy country cousin in the big bad city for the first time.

"Jade," she cooed. "How very lovely. It suits you, my dear. It truly does."

We went on this way for a while, discussing nothing as femininely as possible, commenting on the performer's hairstyle, the absolutely ravishing evening gown someone over by the door was wearing, and other such frivolities. Carl never said a word, but I caught him staring at me intently several times.

Eventually, we got down to business.

"How would you like to make a lot of money for a few hours' work, Jade?" Alice asked casually.

"I'm -- not sure I know what you mean. I'm not a hooker or --"

She cut off my protest with a touch of her hand on my arm. "Oh no, my dear. Nothing like that, I assure you. Just some photographs. I have a number of clients who would pay well for pictures of such a lovely lady as yourself."

I pretended to modest confusion and laughed nervously. "Surely you can't be serious? I'm nothing special. There are dozens of far more beautiful people in this very room."

"Oh, but you are special, my dear," she assured me, leaning forward and smiling brightly. "My clients like oriental ladies." She waved her free hand negligently. "All these other folks are so -- common."

"Well, I could use some cash --" I allowed hesitantly, hoping to egg her on. "But I really don't think I want to do anything like that."

We went back and forth that way for a few minutes, with me trying to get her to elaborate on what she wanted and her trying to reassure me.

Was this going to be enough for Peter, or should I keep at it?

The decision was abruptly taken out of my hands. Alice glanced at Carl and gave a slight nod. He pulled one side of his jacket open just far enough to allow me a glimpse of his other hand holding an automatic pistol. Alice's hand closed tightly around my wrist. Still with a friendly smile on her painted face, she leaned closer and said softly, "You'll come with us now, my dear. Or you'll be very sorry."

They both stood up, lifting me to my feet as they did so.

"Now wait a minute --" I protested.

"Shut up!" Carl hissed. "Walk."

Together, we headed in the direction of the rest rooms. I wondered briefly why they weren't taking me to the main entrance, then I saw that there was an exit door just past the rest rooms. I tried to hold back, but they each had an arm and I felt Carl's pistol pressed against my ribs. I was outside before I even thought about resisting, with Alice and Carl hustling me toward a silver-gray Lincoln parked at the side of a deserted street. Another highly photogenic and muscular young man got out of the car and opened the back door as we approached.

Gun or no gun, I didn't want to get into that car. Gambling that they wouldn't shoot me and damage the merchandise, I tried to pull free, at the same time aiming a kick at Carl.

Have you ever tried to kick someone while you're wearing a tight skirt? It doesn't work very well. I got a fist in the stomach for my trouble, then the other young man grabbed the front of my dress and flung me unceremoniously into the back seat. I was still doubled over and struggling to catch my breath as the Lincoln pulled away from the curb.

Alice and Carl were sandwiched in on either side of me, while the other man drove.

"That wasn't very cooperative of you, my dear," Alice said. "You made us mess up your nice outfit." She grabbed me by the torn bodice of my dress and pushed me back against the seat.

"Please don't hurt me," I begged between gasps, hoping Peter had caught onto what was happening and would be following us. Or was his bug just a recorder, and not a tracking device? I hadn't asked. "Let me go. Please. I don't want to --"

"Shut up!" Alice growled, shaking me roughly. Then her eyes dropped down to my chest. I looked down also. The torn dress had left my fake tits exposed, with the little black bug in plain sight at the edge of my bra. Oh, shit!

Her fingers followed her eyes, and in a moment the bug sat in the palm of her hand, while my heart almost decided to stop beating.

"Well, well. What have we here? Looks like some kind of a recording device."

I couldn't think of an answer, so I settled for a haughty stare.

"Now, why would you want to record our conversation, my dear? I do hope you weren't planning to go to the police with this."

I kept silent. Let them go on thinking it was nothing but a recorder. The more Peter heard the better. And the longer he could keep tracking us, if indeed it was a tracker.

"Ronnie, take the long way around. Jade and I need a little time to talk."

The driver nodded.

"Perhaps you can explain this?" Alice purred.

I shook my head, stalling for time.

She poked at the black ovoid with one fingernail. "Maybe this doesn't just record. Maybe it's a tracker also," she mused.

I devoutly hoped so, because I had caught no sight of Peter's sedan when I had risked a quick glance in the rearview mirror a moment ago.

Very deliberately, Alice let the bug fall to the floor of the car, where she crushed it under a spike heel. Scooping up the pieces, she tossed them out the window.

"There now, isn't that better? Now we won't be disturbed."

Peter, where are you? This would be a good time to hear a siren.

All I heard was the rush of traffic around us, and a low chuckle from the driver.

Alice clamped one hand just above my knee, pressing her fingers into the pressure points on either side of the bone.

"Talk to me, Jade. What are you up to?"

I winced as her grip tightened, but said nothing.

"There are ways to hurt people without doing any significant damage. Would you like to find cut what they are?"

I decided silence would serve no further purpose. I stopped playing the shy and terrified lady and tried for a smartass approach instead. It's much more my style.

"That depends. Do I have a choice?"

"Of course. You can tell me why you're here and what you hoped to accomplish."

"Go fuck yourself."

"Tsk! Such language for someone who thinks he's a lady."

I did a lot of squirming and strangled screaming as she made good on her threat, but I didn't tell her what she wanted to know, which actually surprised me. What I did tell her was a story I concocted on the spur of the moment about being a friend of her last victim and trying to conduct my own private investigation into his murder. I tried to convince her I was working alone, without police involvement, hoping to record something incriminating.

"Well, Jade," she concluded at last, "if you were the bait, you just caught a bigger fish than you or any of your other perverted friends will be able to fry."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm very good at what I do, because I've had years of practice. I'm not just in this for the money, although that's certainly a factor. It's amazing what some people will pay to see. I'm basically doing it because I hate your kind."

"My -- kind?"

"Men who think they can be better women than real women. Sick perverts like you."

"I suppose killing people isn't sick and perverted?"

"I'm not killing people. I'm disposing of trash. And in a fitting and appropriate manner, I might add."

Now she had me thoroughly confused. "But why would you want to prey on your own people? I've heard of self-hatred, but this is ridiculous."

It was her turn to be confused new. "My own people? What in the blazing hell are you talking about?"

Ronnie caught on before she did. "He thinks you're a man, Alice," the driver explained, barely suppressing a laugh.

She leaned away from me, insult clear on her face.

"Whatever gave you that idea?" The fire in her eyes could have melted the ice in her voice.

"Well, the club, the extravagant clothes and overdone makeup. I just assumed --"

She looked at me, one plucked and pencilled-in eyebrow raised.

Right, Jeremy. Never assume. Isn't that what you once tried to tell Peter? I thought, as the light dawned.

"You're not a man?" I said lamely.

"No shit, Sherlock," was the arch reply. She (really "she" this time!) laughed at my error. Unfortunately, she still sounded angry. I'd have preferred a touch of genuine amusement.

"I assume you have a rough idea of what I have planned for you, my dear?"

I nodded.

"It might cheer you to know that this is the last movie I'll be doing in this country. I've decided to take my little production company on the road again. I usually move to a new city after each movie, but the pickings have been so good here that I just couldn't bear to leave. Still, if the perverts themselves have taken to hunting me down, I figure it's time to move on. What do you say, boys? Maybe we ought to try Canada for a while."

Carl said nothing, as usual, leaving Ronnie to answer for them both. "Sure, Alice. I hear there are some pretty strange people up there. Anyplace you want is okay with us. You're the one paying the bills."

Satisfied, she smiled and leaned back in the seat. "Take us to the studio, Ronnie. We've wasted enough time on this already."

We made an abrupt turn onto a busy street. Shortly thereafter, we stopped briefly at a red light. I'd pretty much lost track of where we were and I certainly didn't recognize the street corner, but I caught a glimpse of a sign that read "Prince Street" just as he turned off the crowded thoroughfare. That told me nothing, other than the fact that we were in a part of the city unfamiliar to me. It was dark and deserted at this hour. Mostly old buildings with the appearance of a factory district that had seen better days.

Shortly after that, the car pulled over and carefully backed down to the end of a dingy little alley that dead-ended in a wall. I glanced around as well as I could as they hustled me across the cracked pavement and into the side door of what might have been an old warehouse or factory, judging by the aged brick walls and lack of windows. There wasn't much to distinguish this street or building from any other one in the immediate vicinity. I still didn't know exactly where I was. As the heavy door clanged shut behind me, I reflected that it might not much matter if I knew my location or not, since I now had no way to get that information to Peter.

The place was big and kind of echoey, as if there was more empty space out there in the unlighted darkness. I could just about make out high ceilings with exposed pipes, fluorescent light fixtures, and ventilation or heating conduits running every which way in the dimness overhead.

Ronnie flicked a couple of switches and some lights came on in a partitioned-off corner of the building. It looked rather like you'd expect the costume and make-up area of a movie studio to look, but on a smaller scale.

Carl still had his gun out and pointed at me as they marched me over into the light. I stood there self-consciously holding the front of my ripped dress closed, pretty much the way a woman might do under the same circumstances, while Alice circled around me, her eyes appraising my appearance.

"Ronnie, I'm afraid we've messed him up quite a bit," she said at last. "Fix his makeup. I don't want him looking this disheveled." She favored me with a nasty smile. "Not yet, anyway."

"Sure, Alice. You want him dressed better too?"

She nodded and continued her inspection, fingering the fabric of my skirt. "This shade of green is good on him, but the dress has got to go. Suggestions?"

"I know just the thing." Ronnie sorted through a rack of costumes, pulling out an extravagant concoction of lace, ruffles, and short gauzy skirts that looked like it might well be one of Victoria's better-kept Secrets. In my wildest daydreams, I'd never worn anything like that. It was, however, a delicate shade of green.

Ronnie held it up in front of me. Alice nodded.

"Got shoes to go with it?"

"Of course."

He produced a pair of spike heels with sling backs.

"Wait a minute," I objected. "I can't walk in those things."

"Don't worry. You don't have to walk very far. Or for very long."

Then he did a double-take, his eyes sliding over my face and coming back again to focus on it more sharply. He pulled my glasses off and ran a finger along the top of one of my eyelids. I made a successful grab for the glasses and replaced them on my nose as he announced, "Alice, this guy's not Chinese at all, but someone did a pretty good job of making him appear to be."

Alice had gone over to one of the mirrors and was vigorously brushing out her bleached-blond hair. Frowning, she laid the brush aside and came over to me. Taking my chin in one hand, she turned my head first one way then another.

"I like the illusion and my viewers prefer ethnic types," she decided at last. "Keep this basic look, but make it more pronounced, okay?"

"However you want it. It's your show."

"Indeed it is."

Her hand stroked my cheek, sliding back into my hair. She grabbed a handful and jerked my head back, hard enough to hurt.

"The hair isn't very long, but it's real, isn't it, my dear?"

"Yes, damnit," I replied through clenched teeth.

"That's nice. I despise wigs. Like condoms, they have a habit of coming off at the wrong times."

She opened her hand, but didn't take it away. Instead, her fingers slid around to my ear, pushing my hair out of the way.

"Don't care much for the earrings. Too much like something my mother would wear. Are your ears pierced?"

"Only the left one."

"Tsk tsk. Real women have both ears pierced. Oh well, that's not really a problem. Something green and dangly, Ronnie."

"Gotcha."

"Now hold on --" I started to object.

"Shut up and put this on," Ronnie said, thrusting the green lacy outfit into my arms. I just stood there, pretty much in shock.

"Do it, or I'll take that dress off you myself."

That didn't sound nearly as nice as it might have, under other circumstances. I did as I was told.

After helping me master the fine points of getting into the elaborate negligee, Ronnie circled around, inspecting me with a critical eye. He grabbed my hands, turning my arms up so he could see the network of thin white scars that crisscrossed each wrist.

"What happened here?" he asked scornfully. "You try to off yourself because you weren't a woman?"

"No, it was nothing like that at all."

He just shrugged. "Here, put on these wristlets. They should cover the scars pretty well."

They did.

A couple of minutes later, I found myself seated in a chair while Ronnie repaired and elaborated on my makeup. He'd taken off my glasses again, which made me half-blind and even more vulnerable. This was the first time I'd actually had a chance to think about my situation. The thoughts weren't particularly comforting.

I was about to become the unwilling star of a movie that would have no redeeming social value whatsoever. If I were Caine, or even Peter, I could perhaps have fought my way out of here. As things stood, I was still sore from my earlier attempt to prove my martial arts prowess, not to mention the lovely lady's tender ministrations.

My imagination insisted on dwelling on the immediate future. Nobody knew where I was, so no cavalry would come charging over the hill in the nick of time. About the best I could hope for was that I might be able to goad them into killing me fairly quickly, but I didn't even have much chance at that. After all, it was a movie they wanted. If it were a TV show. I could at least figure on all the time taken out for commercials. Even a made-for-TV movie would be an improvement.

(Yeah, I really thought all that. My mind was literally gibbering, even as I tried my best to maintain an outward show of calm.)

It wasn't much consolation to realize that Peter would have his suspicions irrevocably confirmed after they found my body. Maybe he'd even be able to catch up with Alice and her cronies before they left the country. Even so, it wouldn't do me any good.

I had my hands tightly clenched in my lap, so they wouldn't betray me by shaking. As the fake nails of one hand dug into the palm of the other, I became aware of Bobbie's ring on my finger. I traced the slight indentations of the carved dragons with a fingertip, thinking of the lover I would probably never see again.

That didn't exactly make me feel any better, but it sent my thoughts off in another direction. Bobbie, who even now would be worrying about me, along with Caine, Lo Si, and Peter. Peter would doubtless be totally frustrated, having realized his homing device had been destroyed and not knowing where to search for me. What would Caine and the Ancient be doing?

I remembered how Caine had touched my mind, when I was about to be killed by Bon Bon Hai a while back, even as Caine himself lay in the hospital, recovering from a bullet wound. The Ancient had helped him to contact me, he'd said, but even so it had been difficult.

Yeah, but he'd done it, hadn't he? Maybe he could do it again, if I gave him a chance.

Ronnie had finished with the makeup and was working on my hair, combing and styling it deftly. I closed my eyes, trying to form a picture in my mind of how Caine had looked on the various occasions I'd seen him meditating. I made an attempt at calling up that same sort of quietness in my mind. At first I was simply too scared to breathe properly, but after a couple of minutes some of the fear drifted away and my thoughts focussed on the remembered image of his face, almost in profile.

I'm here, I thought. Oh please, find me! And make it soon!

I don't know how long I kept that up. It seemed like forever, yet it also seemed the briefest of instants. At one point, I thought I heard his voice in my mind, just the faintest whisper of "Jeremy? Where --?" But that so freaked me that my concentration slipped and I wasn't sure if I lost it or not. Nevertheless, I fixed my mind on what little I knew of my location, visualizing the street sign I had seen earlier and then the alley outside the entrance to the warehouse, with Alice's silver-gray Lincoln parked at the end. Maybe I wasn't making contact, or maybe I'd only imagined that brief trace of Caine's presence, or maybe he wouldn't be able to figure out where I was when I didn't really know myself. I'm no good at this telepathic stuff. I couldn't tell for sure.

Alice brought me abruptly back to reality by gouging her thumb into one of those nasty little pressure points on my shoulder. A certain amount of courage must have seeped into me from my concentration on Caine because I didn't so much as flinch at the sudden pain.

"Excellent," she said. "At least we haven't got a totally gutless wonder on our hands. Makes for better drama that way. I rather thought you might be a good prospect, after our little session in the car."

She handed me my glasses and turned the chair so I faced the mirror. "What do you think of the new you?"

You want to talk about a makeover? When I saw the image in the mirror, I had a hard time convincing myself it was really me. I had no idea I could look quite that gorgeous. Bobbie would have been amazed. He was good, but this was professional-level work. I was impressed despite my fear.

Then I got a good look at what Alice and Carl were wearing.

They were both in skintight black leather costumes, replete with studs and chains. They even wore masks that covered face and head; if I hadn't known who they were, I wouldn't have been able to recognize them. Of course, that would be the idea, if they meant to be in the movie themselves.

The outfits were so obviously stereotypical that they almost seemed ridiculous. I've fooled around a little with BDSM, so I know how the game is played. If that's all there was to this, I wouldn't have been so scared. But BDSM is a game, played with the full consent of everyone involved. It has its limits. Despite the silly costumes, this was for real.

I guess Alice must have been enjoying the look on my face, because she laughed. Then she fingered the ruffles at my bodice. "You'll probably enjoy the first part of this, my dear. It's designed to prove you really are a man, despite this outfit."

At a wave of her hand, Ronnie hoisted me out of the chair and led me past several racks of costumes and over to another well-lighted area of the warehouse. "Okay," he explained as we went, "here's how it works. Feel free to struggle and scream all you want, but if you try to say anything that hints at who we are, we'll have you gagged and go on from there. Got that?"

I nodded as I looked over what appeared to be a stage set with the appearance of a medieval dungeon. Well, at least it went with their costumes.

"What now? We gonna play dungeons and dragons?" I quipped.

"Ha ha, very funny," Ronnie replied coldly.

"No, it's okay," Alice put in. "I like it better when they show a little spirit. That won't last long, don't worry." She glanced over at Ronnie, who had picked up a video camera and was fiddling with the controls. "Ready?"

He nodded. Alice grinned. "Okay. Action!"

Carl grabbed hold of me and dragged me roughly into the room. Considering the spike heels I was wearing, it was all I could do to stay on my feet. As it was, I took a nasty crack on the head when he thrust me up against the wall. Before I knew what was happening, they had my back to the wall and my wrists clamped into manacles off to each side of my head. Alice strode over to face me, holding a riding crop in one hand.

No one had said I couldn't fight back. I raised one leg and kicked her squarely in the stomach, heels and all. Unfortunately, her leather outfit protected her from any real damage, but she did stagger backwards and land on her ass, gasping for breath in a most unladylike manner.

"You'll pay for that, pervert," she said as soon as she could breathe again. "Oh yes, you'll pay."

I believed her.


I must admit that she had told the truth earlier on. I almost enjoyed what they did for starters. That is, if you can enjoy having someone jerk you off rather roughly, while simultaneously being jeered at and smacked around. I can't say I enjoyed getting hit with the riding crop, but at least it's not the kind of thing that causes lasting damage or serious internal injury. By the time they began getting really nasty, my already flimsy outfit was pretty well ruined and my hair and make-up were a disaster area. I was also beginning to run out of smart remarks.

(Okay, I'm being funny. But you really don't want to know what it's like to be chained to a wall and savaged, do you? If you do, go out and try it yourself sometime. If it's for real, and you're going to end up dead, I doubt very much that you'll enjoy it.)

When Alice took out a short-bladed but very sharp knife and held it up in front of my face, I knew things were about to get serious.

"Okay, pervert," she said with cruel delight. "You want to be a woman? I'll make you one."

I couldn't let that pass without making a smart comeback. After all, how much worse could it possibly make things?

"You're selling yourself short, lady. A woman is something entirely different from a man with his prick cut off."

"What would you know about it?" she sneered.

"Apparently, a whole lot more than you do."

"We'll see about that, my dear." She laughed shortly as she moved closer to me. I couldn't take my eyes off the shining blade of the knife in her hand.

"Police! Freeze!"

I never imagined I'd be so happy to hear Peter's voice, although I couldn't see him. For that first glorious instant, I imagined it was all over and I was safe, until someone killed the lights, plunging the entire building into darkness.

A couple of shots rang out, but people soon gave up shooting blind. From my vantage point, all I could hear was an occasional shout or scuffle. I had no idea whether Peter had come to my rescue alone or if he'd brought the entire police force. I was frankly hoping for the latter, but it was just too quiet. Alice and her cronies had to be trying to find their way out of the building, even as Peter (and his back-up?) attempted to collar them.

Meanwhile, I struggled vainly to get my wrists free, desperately wanting to call for help, but not at all certain it wouldn't draw the attention of the wrong parties.

"Jeremy, hold still. I will free you." Caine's voice next to my ear; barely above a whisper.

"You don't have the keys --" I stopped when I felt the manacles let go. I didn't bother to ask how he did it.

"Come with me," he said, taking a firm grip on my arm. I tried, but my ankles wobbled sideways and twisted in the damn spike heels. I would have fallen except that he held me up.

"You are hurt?"

I quickly kicked off the shoes.

"It's okay. Let's go."

How Caine found his way around in the total darkness, I have no idea. I just went whichever way he pulled me. I think someone attacked us or blundered into us at one point, because Caine moved away from me for a few moments and I heard something going on. Then we were through a doorway and I felt cold outdoor air on my skin. I blinked stupidly in the sudden glare from a streetlight, trying to figure out where we were. It seemed to be the same alley I'd seen earlier, but Alice's Lincoln was parked further down the street, so we had to have come through a different door.

Peter's sedan was parked an equal distance in the opposite direction, close to the entrance to the alley. Caine steered me toward the safety of the car. Suddenly, he froze, then spun around as if he'd heard something.

I turned also, barely in time to see a black-clad figure jump into the Lincoln. It was too small to be Carl so I knew it had to be Alice.

The powerful motor roared to life, then the car screeched away from the curb, gaining speed rapidly. It swerved towards us. Caine jerked me back against the wall, and the car missed us by inches.

After all I had gone through, was Alice going to escape? Peter and the others were still inside the building. Caine might be a terrific martial artist, but I didn't think his talents extended to fighting automobiles, particularly ones that were rapidly accelerating away from us.

Suddenly, the parked sedan jerked forward, pulling out directly into the path of the oncoming Lincoln. I heard Caine yell, "Bobbie, no!" and realized who the driver had to be, but there was nothing I could do except watch.

In almost dreamlike slow motion, I saw the two vehicles collide. The Lincoln plowed into the side of the other car and pushed it along the street in a screech of metal and rubber that only stopped when both vehicles fetched up against the wall of the building.

I snapped out of shocked immobility when I saw Caine running toward the wreck. He vaulted over the back of the Lincoln and pulled the mangled door off the driver's side of the sedan. By the time I got there, he was dragging Bobbie carefully out of the wreckage.

Blood covered Bobbie's face, but I saw his chest rise and fall as Caine laid him on the sidewalk. I went to my knees next to him.

Most of the blood seemed to be from a cut on his forehead. I reminded myself that scalp wounds often bleed profusely, even if they aren't serious.

Caine, meanwhile, totally oblivious to the HIV-tainted blood all over Bobbie's shirt, had his hands pressed flat against the injured man's chest. But he wasn't doing CPR. Instead, his eyes were closed and his face was set in that relaxed-but-concentrated look he gets sometimes. I wanted desperately to take Bobbie in my arms and just hold him, but I dared not disrupt whatever Caine was doing. Taking Bobbie's limp hand in both of mine, I crouched next to him, willing him to be okay.

When Peter touched my shoulder, I nearly jumped out of my skin.

"Ambulance on the way," he said softly. "Pop? How is he?" Even as he spoke, Peter had shrugged out of his jacket and wrapped it around my shoulders. It was only then that I realized I was pretty close to naked in the cold wind blowing along the street.

With an effort that was almost visible, Caine pulled himself back into the real world.

"Several ribs are broken. He is bleeding into his lungs, but not badly. I have stopped it as best I can." He looked at me. "There is no immediate danger, but he must have help."

Bobbie opened his eyes, drew a rasping breath and grimaced.

"Did you get her?"

"Yeah," Peter confirmed. Then he added, somewhat shamefaced, "Actually, it was the Ancient who got her. She wasn't badly hurt in the crash."

But I didn't care about all of that. All I cared about was Bobbie. "Don't try to talk now, kiddo," I cautioned. "Save your strength."

His hand tightened on mine. "What for, Jeremy?" He tried to laugh, but it came out as more of a gurgle. "God, you look a fright!"

"Yeah, I guess I do."

I heard what I hoped was the siren or an approaching ambulance.

Bobbie lifted my hand, indicating with one finger the jade ring I still were. "Put this on that Quilt panel you promised to make me, okay?"

"Bobbie, you're not gonna --"

"Just do it," he whispered.

I nodded. Pulling the ring off my finger, I returned it to its usual place on Bobbie's hand. "For luck, kiddo. It worked for me, didn't it?"

He smiled. Then the ambulance was there and EMT's were crawling all over us. Caine drew me to my feet as they placed Bobbie on a stretcher.

"Jeremy, come away. There is -- nothing more you can do."

"I've got to go with them. I can't --"

"Bobbie is being cared for. You would only be in the way."

"But I've got to --"

"No, you do not. Besides, you should not appear at the hospital, dressed as you are. Is it not possible that people will -- misunderstand?"

Actually, the problem was that they might understand all too well. But that got through to me where nothing else could. The ambulance crew didn't know me. In fact, they might not even have realized I wasn't a woman. But if I showed up in the Emergency Room, I'd have a whole lot of explaining to do.

By now the ambulance had pulled away. I let Caine lead me away from the wrecked vehicles and over to the wall, his arm across my shoulder and his body blocking me from the sight of most of the police officers, who were busily trying to sort out the situation.

I started really shaking then, as my conscious mind finally had time to absorb the danger that had passed. The numerous welts and bruises on various parts of my anatomy began clamoring for attention all at once. I guess I was sort of in shock, since about all I could do was stand there and hug Peter's jacket tighter around my bare shoulders.

Caine caught Peter's eye and waved him over.

"Yeah, Pop. What is it?"

"You will -- drive us to Jeremy's home."

"He's got to make a statement."

"He will do that later. Right now, we must leave."

I thought Peter was going to put up an argument, but then he glanced down at my bare legs and the tatters of filmy green fabric that barely hung below the bottom of his jacket.

"Uh -- I see what you mean. Come on."

I don't remember too much about the ride home. Somehow, Caine got me undressed and into the shower. I recall washing the makeup off my face. That sort of brought me back to reality; that, and the water beating down on my head and stinging my various cuts and other surface damage.

I found out later on that Caine and Peter had indeed come into the club after me, once they realized I was being kidnapped. By the time they found their way into the back alley, however, Alice's car had already left. Returning to their sedan, they set out to follow us, using the recorder, which, as I had hoped, also doubled as a tracking device. Alice had a considerable lead by then, so Peter tried a shortcut once he had a rough idea of the direction we were heading. Unfortunately, there had just been an accident along the route he chose. He had almost managed to maneuver around the resulting traffic jam when Alice discovered and destroyed the bug, leaving him to continue blindly in the direction we had been going, but with little hope of actually finding us. Having heard just enough of the conversation between Alice and me to realize that I was in serious danger, Peter called the precinct for help, as Bobbie tried not to freak out completely. Meanwhile, Caine and the Ancient joined together in one of those meditation trances, hoping to pick up some clue as to my whereabouts.

It was almost a half hour later when they finally picked up my desperate "message". They had been holding their trance for so long that they were both pretty exhausted. All they got was a quick image of a streetsign and an alley and Alice's car before the contact dissolved. That at least got them in the right vicinity, but it took time to find the correct alley. When they did, they went in without waiting for back-up, not knowing what might be happening to me. They left Bobbie in the car.

And you know where the story went from there.

I heard the phone as I was getting out of the shower. Caine must have picked it up, because it cut off after two rings. When I stumbled out into the living room transformed once more into my usual more or less masculine self, I found Caine sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of Bobbie's altar. He rose at once, levered me down onto the couch, and put a cup of something hot in my hand, refusing to say anything more until I had drunk the whole thing. I watched a thin line of smoke snake its way upwards from the stick of incense Caine had lit on the altar as I let the hot liquid slide down my throat. Then I looked at him.

"How is Bobbie?" I asked, entirely too calmly.

Caine closed his eyes momentarily before he answered. "Peter -- called from the hospital. The doctors can offer little hope."

Even then, I wasn't ready to hear the truth.

"There must be something more you can do," I objected. "Something we haven't tried yet."

"Jeremy, -- I told you when you first came to me about Bobbie, that I cannot cure AIDS."

Yeah, but I thought you were just being modest --"

He shook his head.

"Well, damnit, you can't just give up! There must be --"

My voice broke and I turned my head away. I felt Caine's hands on my shoulders. I probably could have turned around right then and cried in his arms, but I knew if I did I'd have to admit to myself that it was hopeless. That wasn't what I wanted, so I resisted the tears, and with them, Caine's offer of comfort. I just sat there staring at the statue of the Buddha and trying to tell myself Bobbie had a chance.

Now, on a few rare occasions, I've picked up images of things that had to have come from Caine's memories. At least that's the only explanation I can think of for the scene that suddenly played itself out in my head.

It was outside, probably in a courtyard at the Temple, judging by what was going on. Caine, in orange robes and beads and without his hair, was talking to a young man who appeared to be Native American. Several grim-looking monks in gray outfits surrounded the boy, attacking him in what was obviously some kind of test or practice match. He fought valiantly but was eventually overwhelmed and held by the others.

The young man looked at Caine, who stood with his hands clasped in front of him, and asked, "When there are so many, what do I do?"

I expected some sort of clever advice or spectacular demonstration of how to escape and emerge victorious from the present situation. Instead, Caine clapped his hands sharply twice to signal the monks to release their captive and said rather sadly, "Against overwhelming odds, you lose."

The scene faded.

"No," I whispered. "I don't want to lose. I don't want Bobbie to lose."

Caine didn't say anything right away. If he realized what had happened and what I was referring to, he offered no explanation for it. Only his words to the Indian boy echoed in my head.

"Jeremy," he said at last, "perhaps to die accomplishing something is not truly to lose. Since none of us may live forever, perhaps it is the -- only way to win, in the end."

I knew then what I had been trying so hard not to know.

"He's really going to die this time, isn't he?" I said at last.

"Yes," was the quiet answer.

"What do you do when you have to watch someone you love die?"

I regretted the words almost as soon as they had left my lips. He'd lost a wife. I didn't know the exact circumstances of her death, but I seemed to recall he'd mentioned a lingering disease. My question would bring back no happy thoughts.

Caine sighed and said simply, "You -- mourn. And you give what love you can, while you can."

"I'm not very good at love."

"It is a -- thing which is learned best by doing."

"I'm even worse at mourning."

"That -- is also a thing learned best by doing," he suggested.

"How can you be so damn calm about it?" I asked, not angrily.

"Jeremy --" and the hesitation was longer than usual here -- "I -- am not."

I turned around to face him, utterly astounded to see there were tears in his eyes.

Something broke inside and I let myself feel the grief I'd been trying to deny for so long. Sometimes you lose, and there will be no happy endings. There was nothing more I could do for Bobbie, nothing but stand by and watch him die. I didn't know where I would find the courage to do that, but I knew I would have to try.


I'll spare you the blow-by-blow description of my Bobbie's losing battle with pneumonia. Otherwise, this would turn into a medical journal. He lived for all of eight days before the end came. He had long ago signed one of those living wills that forbid extreme measures in hopeless cases, and I made sure the hospital personnel abided by his wishes. He was in Intensive Care, but there was no respirator to force air into his unwilling lungs. I stayed with him the entire time. Caine and the Ancient came by often, with their herbal remedies and assorted magical potions. Perhaps they couldn't save him, but they seemed determined to make him as comfortable as possible. To an extent, it worked.


Then a day came when I was sprawled out in the chair next to the bed, thoroughly exhausted and barely more conscious than Bobbie. A slight sound disturbed my half-doze. Forcing my eyes open, I saw that Caine had come into the room and was leaning ever Bobbie, smoothing the hair back from his forehead.

"They have found -- proof that Alice was responsible for many other murders," Caine said softly to Bobbie.

At that point, I couldn't have cared less, but Caine wasn't talking to me.

"There is more than enough evidence to convict her," he went on. "My son said to tell you -- that they could not have done it without you and Jeremy."

So big deal, I thought bitterly, watching him from under half-closed eyelids. Why are you bothering him with this?

I might have gotten up and said exactly that, but I caught a glimpse of Bobbie's face and that stopped me. For the first time in days, he was smiling. I could barely hear his whispered reply.

"Maybe -- there was a -- reason -- then?"

"There is always -- a reason," Caine said gently, "although we often do not know what it is. Just as your life has not been in vain, neither is your death in vain. Go in peace and honor, and regret nothing."

Go? I thought in alarm. That didn't sound good at all. I struggled to my feet. "Caine? What are you doing here? What's going --"

He silenced me with a short gesture. I looked at Bobbie. He was still smiling, but I got the feeling he wasn't really seeing me or Caine. His eyes closed slowly, but the smile remained.

Bobbie never regained consciousness after that, although he was technically alive for several more hours. Lo Si arrived shortly before the end came. I saw the monitors flatline.

Several nurses came running into the room when the alarms went off, but they respected the "No Code Blue" order on Bobbie's chart and made no attempt to resuscitate him.

I wrapped my arms around my lost love and laid my head down on his chest. Caine and Lo Si stood on either side of the bed, reciting something in Chinese. The only word I recognized had something to do with light.

I held Bobbie until Caine pried my arms loose, a long time later. Then Caine held me until I could stop crying.

"Jeremy, you must -- come away now," he said at last. "Let us tend to the body."

"Just one more thing," I said raggedly. I slid the carved jade ring off Bobbie's finger. I'd promised to put it on his Quilt panel, hadn't I? I tried to close his half-open, glazing eyes, but it isn't as easy as it looks in the movies. Even so, his face still appeared peaceful, as it had been when he'd died. I settled for kissing his forehead before I let Caine lead me away.

Against overwhelming odds, my Bobbie had lost -- or perhaps he'd won, after all.

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