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table and chair near the foot of the bed. Palmer's dream-self was aware that someone-or something-was seated in the chair, watching him. At first he thought it was Loli-he could see enough to tell his visitor was female-and he instinctively put his hand to the scar over his heart. The puckered skin remained cool to the touch. Whoever this dream-intruder was, at least it wasn't her.
    Palmer wanted to stand up and walk toward the mysterious woman, but he couldn't move.
    Who are you?
    The dream-woman did not answer but instead got to her feet. She stood in deep shadow, fingering the length of netting draped across the footboard. A spear of moonlight struck her face, but all Palmer could see was his own perplexed frown, reflected in miniature. Who are you ?
    The shadow-woman smiled, revealing teeth too white and sharp to belong in a human mouth. That's funny, I was going to ask you the same thing.
    It was her. The one he'd traveled so far to find. Palmer had never seen her photo, much less heard her voice, but he was certain that the woman standing at the foot of his bed was Sonja Blue. Before he could ask her another question, her attention was drawn to the balcony.
    Here? No, not here. But close. On its way.
    She sprinted for the French windows. Palmer opened his mouth to shout a warning

    Create PDF files without this message by purchasing novaPDF printer ( http://www.novapdf.com ) that they were two stories up, but nothing came out. He felt slightly embarrassed for trying to warn a dream about breaking its legs. When she reached the open windows, she seemed to expand and elongate at the same time, stretching like a spaceship achieving light speed, then shot headfirst into the early morning sky.
    Palmer was suddenly aware that he was cold and sweating and shaking like a malaria victim. His scar began to burn like a hot wire pressed against his chest.
    Loli popped up from behind the footboard like a malignant jack-in-the-box, the .38
    leveled at his heart.
    " Surrr-prizzze!"
    He was unable to control himself this time and woke screaming, his fingers clawing at the scar.

    There was no listing for Indigo Imports in either the New Orleans Yellow or White Pages. Palmer hadn't expected one, but you never could tell. Still, if you wanted a credit card, you had to have a phone. It was a fact of life. It was probably an unlisted number, but there was always the chance she relied on a message service to relay her calls. And those were listed.
    After three hours and eighty-six answering services, he called Telephones Answered, Inc. and asked to speak to the head of Indigo Imports.
    "I'm sorry, sir, but this is her answering service. Would you like to leave a message?"
    He had her. He fought to keep his voice from betraying his excitement. "Yes. Tell her William Palmer called. It's very important that she contact me," he said, and gave the operator the number off Pangloss's phone.
    "Very, good, sir. I'll make sure she gets the message."
    Palmer replaced the phone in its cradle. Sightseeing would have to wait.

    The call came at six that evening. He'd fallen into a light drowse, helped by a couple of shots of expensive bourbon he'd found in the wet bar, and nearly fell off the couch attempting to answer the phone before the second ring.
    "Hello?"
    There was silence on the other end of the line, then a woman's voice. "Mr. Palmer?"
    "This is Palmer."
    "What do you want of me, Mr. Palmer?"
    "I'm a private investigator, Ms. Blue. I was hired by your grandfather, Dr.
    Pangloss, to find you."
    "You work for him?" There was both suspicion and curiosity in her voice.
    "In a fashion. Let's say I owe him a favor. All I know is that I'm supposed to deliver a letter to you. Please, I'd like to arrange a meeting with you, if it's at all possible."
    "You will be alone." It wasn't a question.
    "Of course. You set the time and place. Whatever you're comfortable with."
    "Tuesday night at eleven. The Devil's Playground, on the corner of Decatur and Governor