visible. The other two he could handle.
"Nice of you to get that out for us," said one of the stooges, eyeing Spector's wallet. "Iland it over."
Spector shoved his wallet back into his pants pocket. "Fuck off, you little shit. While you still can."
"Feed 'im his teeth, Billy," said the leader. "It'll save time with everybody else."
Billy whipped the board around his body a couple of times, then swung it up into an attack position. It reminded Spector of the Chinese bench fighters he'd seen in kung fu movies. These guys obviously knew what they were doing. He'd have to take them out in a hurry. He locked eyes with Billy. Spector's death flowed into him. Billy fell face first into the bar-rail.
"Shit, get him, Romeo." The little punk was still directing traffic.
Romeo looked at Billy's body, then at Spector. Mistake. Five seconds later he was dead on the floor.
Spector sensed movement and raised his arm, reaching for the Ingram with his other hand. The skateboard slammed into his forearm, jolting him hard enough to knock him over and send the gun flying. He bounced off a table and landed on the floor. The gun was several feet away. The punk dropped his skateboard and grabbed the pistol. He centered it on Spector 's chest and smiled. A cue ball caught him in the side of the head as he pulled the trigger.
Spector rolled as the bullets tore up the table and floor. He felt bits of wood dig through his clothes and into his flesh. He crawled to the remaining Bedtime Boy. The kid sat up and shook his head. The sunglasses were gone.
"Good-bye," Spector said.
The punk met his eyes and gasped, then keeled over. Spector grabbed the Ingram and holstered it, then stood. The bartender was looking at him, afraid but annoyed. Nobody was talking.
"Some people got no manners at all. These boys are doing the big sleep now. Serves them right," Spector said, rubbing his arm.
The bartender gestured tentatively toward the door. "Don't worry. I'm gone."
"Hey, tough guy. Throw us back our cue ball." A short, well-built man in a white tank top pointed at Spector's feet. He picked up the ball and tossed it back. "Nice shot." The bartender coughed.
Spector walked out into the sunlit street, reaching inside his shirt to tug the splinters out. The fight with the skateboard punks had momentarily made him forget about the Astronomer. He sucked air in through his clenched teeth. With Butcher dead, the job was probably off Couldn't hurt to find out, though. He pulled a quarter from his pants pocket.
He found a pay phone just down the street from the Bottomless Pit. There was no answer at the Dime Museum, so Spector called the Twisted Dragon and asked for Danny Mao.
After waiting for a few moments a young Oriental came on the line.
"Danny Mao. Who's this?" The voice was smooth and assured, with only a trace of accent.
"My name's Spector. I was born in the year of the fire horse. I need to get in touch with one of your people. Guy with a Boston accent, sharp, careful."
There was a brief pause. "Mr. Spector, I'm not familiar with you. Who gave you my number?"
"A joker named Eye. Look, I was contacted this morning about a job. Things have changed, I have to find out what he wants done. Can you help me or not?"
"Possibly, but he's a very busy man, particularly today. Perhaps I can have him contact you later."
"Fine. I'll take the notebooks to someone else." He figured the lie would get Mao's attention.
"Ah, I see. Where are you now?"
Mao had bitten hard. The notebooks must be even more important than Spector had originally guessed. "You just give me the number, or I'll make sure the word goes around that you held up delivery on these babies."
"Call 555-4301. It's his private line. You'd better not be jerking us around..."
Spector hung up on Mao in midsentence. A chic young couple was standing behind him, obviously waiting to use the phone. He stared at the woman, grabbed his crotch, and licked his lips. They hurried away. Spector dropped another quarter into the slot and punched in the number.
He answered on the first ring. "Latham."
It was the person who'd called that morning. No question. The only Latham he was aware of was a big-cheese lawyer. "This is Spector. Have you heard about Butcher?"
"Of course. His death does alter a few things." Latham didn't act surprised to hear from him. There