Chapter 38

           Iwatchedhimpouradrinkfromthebottleoffifteen-year-oldmalt,takeittothephoneandseathimselfcarefully.Thebrokenribshadbeenweldedbacktogetherinoneoftheambulances,butthewholeofthatsidewasstillonehugeache,withoccasional,flintystabsofagony.Hesippedatthewhisky,gatheredhimselfvisiblyandpunchedoutthecall.

           "Bancroftresidence.Withwhomdoyouwishtospeak?"Itwastheseverely-suitedwomanwhohadansweredlasttimeIcalledSuntouchHouse.Thesamesuit,thesamehair,eventhesamemake-up.Maybeshewasaphoneconstruct.

           "MiriamBancroft,"hesaid.

           Onceagain,itwasthesensationofbeingapassiveobserver,thesamesensationofdisconnectionthatIhadfeltthatnightinfrontofthemirrorwhileRyker’ssleeveputonitsweapons.Thefrags.Onlythistimeitwasmuchworse.

           "Onemoment,please."

           Thewomandisappearedfromthescreenandwasreplacedbytheimageofawindblownmatchflameinsynchwithpianomusicthatsoundedlikeautumnleavesbeingblownalongacrackedandwornpavement.Aminutepassed,thenMiriamBancroftappeared,immaculatelyattiredinaformal-lookingjacketandblouse.Sheraisedoneperfectlygroomedeyebrow.

           "Mr.Kovacs.Thisisasurprise."

           "Yeah,well."Hegestureduncomfortably.Evenacrossthecomlink,MiriamBancroftradiatedasensualitythatunbalancedhim.