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some company?” Her breath smelled like rotting cabbage.
    “Sorry,” said Mercury, waving his hand in an exaggerated gesture of dismissal that he hoped would at least stir up the air a bit. “I’m on the job. Also, I’ve already got a whore.”
    “You do, huh?” said Tana, her breath carrying suspicion and the stench of death. “Where does she work?”
    “Alas,” said Mercury longingly, “Babylon.”
    “Hmph,” grunted Tana, and slipped away to ply her wares elsewhere.
    The band stopped for a break and the scattered patrons of the club smacked their foreheads politely with their palms. [3] The bartender whistled through his teeth and beckoned for Enoch, who strolled nonchalantly over.
    “What it is,” announced Enoch, a short, swarthy man with locks of tightly curled graying-black hair framing a gentle, intelligent face. He nodded to the bartender, who handed him a small glass of clear liquid. Enoch tossed back the shot and slammed the glass down on the granite, sucking air in through his teeth. He motioned for another.
    “You’ve been holding out on me,” said Mercury to the bartender. “What is that, gin?” He looked sadly down at his own cup of fermented juice.
    The bartender ignored him, handing another shot glass to Enoch. “This man’s a talent angel,” said the bartender to Enoch. Says his boss in Babylon is interested –”
    “ Agent ,” Mercury corrected nervously. “I’m a talent agent . It would be pretty funny if I were an angel though, wouldn’t it?”
    They shared a laugh, acknowledging that it would indeed be pretty funny.
    “As my friend here says,” Mercury went on, “I represent certain entertainment interests in Babylon. Specifically, I’m charged with putting together a jazz quartet for Babylon’s premiere nightclub, and as our lead sax player isn’t due to be born for nearly 3800 years, I’m in a bit of a bind.”
    Enoch and the bartender stared dumbly at him.
    “That’s a joke, of course,” said Mercury. “How could I know what’s going to happen 3800 years from now? I couldn’t even find my socks this morning.”
    Enoch and the bartender laughed again, even though they didn’t know what socks were. This Babylonian was quite the character, they had decided.
    “My employer is prepared to pay you handsomely,” Mercury said. “However much fermented juice and cabbage-scented whores you’re getting here, we’ll triple it and throw in twenty goats. You’ll smell like Mickey Rourke by the time we’re done with you.”
    Suddenly the nightclub became very quiet – quieter than an inappropriate Mickey Rourke reference warranted. Enoch and the bartender were stock still, their eyes affixed on the opening of the cave. Mercury turned.
    Three men, armed with bronze-tipped spears, had entered. The leader was a brawny man who had the confident swagger of a Kassite. “We come for the money,” he said. His henchmen scowled and gripped their spears menacingly.
    “I… I don’t have it,” answered the bartender, quivering. “I barely make enough to keep this cave open as it is.”
    “Do I look like I care about your problems?” growled the Kassite. “I got problems o’ my own. Chief of which, if I don’t show up at Sargon’s place with twenty shekels of silver by nightfall, he’s going to take my left testicle.”
    “Well,” said Mercury, “Technically you don’t need both of them. As long as you have one testicle, there’s no reason you can’t lead a perfectly normal –”
    “That’s true,” agreed the Kassite. “I still have one. Would you like to see it? I keep it in a jar as a reminder never to settle for less than twenty shekels of silver .” He motioned to the henchman on his left, who began rummaging about in a cloth sack at his belt.
    “That’s okay,” said Mercury, waving his hand. “I’m sure everyone here has seen a pickled testicle in a jar.” The bar’s patrons mumbled to each other and nodded. Mercury went on, “I have to