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of crackers about four-ish, just so’s that wouldn’t happen.”
    Crackers, Dobbs thought. That’s why he looked so wired. Dobbs wasn’t into uppers himself, but he knew enough about the drug to know that if Evans was on crackers when he was watching the jakes, there was no way he’d have dozed off. Nevertheless, even muties couldn’t vanish into thin air, so the fucker had to have snuck by Evans somehow or other. Had the fucker known he was being followed? Evans broke in on his ruminations. “I didn’t think I should follow him into the jakes. That woulda give the game away, wouldn’t it?”
    “ Shut up,” Dobbs snapped, and Evans cringed. Fuck, Dobbs thought, I shouldn’t blame Evans. If the mutie was a clever dick, it was Dobbs’s own fault for setting Evans to follow him, instead of someone with two more brain cells to rub together. “No, Carter,” he said finally, “it’s alright. You did right. Go have yourself a drink, whatever you want. Tell Briggs I said it’s on the house. Then go home and get some sleep.”
    Evans burbled multiple thank-yous and bowed his servile way out.
    Hanover Dobbs poured himself a drink from his private reserve and re-lit his cigar. He hated mutants. He served them in his bar because the law said he had to, as long as they could show they were properly registered with the city. Once upon a time Dobbs would have scoffed at the law, and any mutie who dared enter the Bar of Gold would have found themselves unceremoniously chucked out. But since he had decided to run for council two years back, Dobbs had changed his policies. He didn’t buy from runners anymore, his hooch and pot had all the proper paperwork and taxes paid on them, his little kitchen passed muster with the health inspector, and his games were all straight. Well, mostly straight. If his resident card sharp was caught cheating by city officials, Dobbs was prepared to fire him and pay the appropriate fines.
    Still, although he might be compelled by law to serve the muties, he didn’t have to make them feel welcome, and he didn’t. Yet this particular mutie continued to visit the Bar of Gold each Thursday and Friday night. Dobbs guessed the guy was just used to the stares and cold reception and didn’t give a shit. He didn’t stay long, anyway. He’d come in, have a couple of drinks, and leave. But his continued presence had drawn Dobbs’s interest. One time Dobbs had gotten behind the bar and served the guy himself, just to get a close look at him. He was tall—almost up to Dobbs’s own 6’ 1”. And strong. Dobbs had spotted the body of an athlete beneath his nondescript clothing, long and lithe, like a swimmer or a runner. He had no tail, no extra limbs; he wasn’t obviously distorted or crippled like some mutants. His mutie status was betrayed only by his albino coloring: pale, white skin and hair and pink eyes. For Dobbs this somehow made it worse. Mutants whose knees worked backward like an animal’s or who sported other obviously nonhuman traits were bad enough, but those whose appearance made them seem almost normal really twisted Dobbs’s short hairs.
    Dobbs couldn’t have said exactly why he was so interested in this particular mutant, except for the question of why the fucker kept coming to a bar where he obviously wasn’t welcome. But now he had a reason. You didn’t vanish—or appear to vanish—from public restrooms unless you had something to hide. And Dobbs had a feeling he knew what the mutie was hiding. There was a killer loose in the city, and given the nature of the killings it was a good bet the Beast was a mutant.
    By six o’clock the following friggin’ bleary gray morning, Dobbs sat in his runabout outside the City Arms apartments. He wasn’t really a morning person, but he could drag himself out early when he needed to. Evans had seen the mutie leave his apartment at eight to go to the dentist, but dental appointments meant variations in schedule; there was no telling what