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he managed another swallow. And the small nourishment was sufficient to pull him back off the edge. He turned his head and felt the pull at his face. What had happened? He remembered the blinding gunshot. He wondered if he was blind in that one eye—perhaps from the point-blank explosion? No. He knew on some mysterious level that he was all right. He was going to be all right.
    “More,” he rumbled.
    “At's a fine, Big Boy. We'll have you up an’ at ‘em in no time now.” And he saw her dip the spoon, which was silver and marked Palmer House, into the can that said Campbell's Minestrone Soup, and his brain told his arm and his hand to move and he reached out and took the can and tilted it up and swallowed the soup.
    “HA!” She was pleased. Another stray being nursed back to health. “Big Boy ate allll his soup."
    He smelled it now and knew that he was wrapped in foul rags, and he realized for the first time that he was lying in his own filth. Why hadn't he been cleaned? What sort of a nurse was she? This wasn't his mommy. This was ... what? He saw where he was then. He was down in the sewers. And this creature who had given him soup had done something to him. He remembered her plunging something sharp into his face and hurting him, and Chaingang looked at the old lady and thought how easily he could snuff her out like a dirty candle but the thought washed over him like a dark and heavy cloud and he could only swallow, a major effort, and he let his upper torso and head fall back down into his nest of rags and he slept again, feeling himself pulled down into the black sleep whirlpool as the woman's voice sounded far away, “Rockabye, Big Boy, in the treetop” and something about something breaking, and he was gone again.
    “That's my good big boy. Sleep good now for Mommy. And when we wake up we'll have a FEAST. We'll slay the fatted calf,” she said with a delighted screech at her rapier wit.
    But Chaingang was far away, dreaming of the face of the cop and the things he would do to that face, the ways he would change that arrogant appearance, and the thought of it stretched part of his own face in the rictus of a bloody smile, and then the big man dreamt of the song of the killer whales and slept.

SOUTH BUCKHEAD

    “ L isten to this ,” he said, reading in a loud voice anyway so he could be heard in the next room but screaming the words he wanted to emphasize. “Designer Bob Mackie attaches a muff to this classic evening fur. All right. Check it out .” He was getting louder by the second. “I'll go muff-diving in that ! HEY, you listening?” There was no comment from the dining room, where the long-suffering woman sat at the table with a pile of bills. The wife of Eichord's old pal Chink.
    “C'mere, you gotta see this, hon,” said Detective Sgt. James Lee. “Listen to the way these people down there live. West Palm Palace highlighted by a spectacular two-story cathedral-ceiling living room this magnificent home is enhanced by a beautifully landscaped half-acre lot that includes a marble pool. Gourmet kitchen,” his voice squeezed into his version of the late Mr. Gleason's how-sweet-it-is voice, “four guest accommodations. Now reduced to sell at only two million four hundred thousand.” He stopped and laughed and turned a page. Perusing in silence for a few moments, then beginning to read aloud again, the awe apparent in his voice as he read, “Unique in all the world. Exquisite Palm Beach oceanfront estate. Walled castle, twenty-seven rooms, beautifully furnished. For the uncompromising. Property includes three-bedroom stone caretaker's cottage on grounds. Eight million, two hundred thousand dollars. EIGHT MILLION DOLLARS , are you listening?"
    The woman in the dining room spoke for the first time, “What did you charge to Visa that was $37.92?"
    “Don't bum me out with that. Prestigious ocean view in panoramic setting. Five bedrooms, four baths. FOUR BATHS! Oceanfront deco breakfast nook.