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fire again, fighting its way out of the barman’s bloodshot eyes. “I heard they were called ‘Communists’. From New York.”
    Rad frowned. “ Com-you-what-now ?”
    â€œThe Reds…” The barman almost whispered it, and let it hang in the air along with the stench of his breath.
    The man was deranged, whatever the hell it was he was chewing pickling his brain. So he’d heard the news from downtown, about the riots and protests, but infiltrators from New York? The Fissure had closed.
    Time to change to subject. Rad pulled the metal rod out again but kept it close to his chest. As soon as it came into view, the barman’s eyes widened again and they darted around the empty bar.
    â€œJesus, mister, you gonna give me palpitations, I’m telling ya.”
    Rad’s eyebrow went up again. “You know someone called Geiger?”
    The barman shook his head, quickly. “Never heard of no Geiger, but then I don’t know his real name.”
    The mystery man. Rad’s caller, he had no doubt about it.
    â€œWho?”
    The chewing paused, and this time the barman ran his hand through his greasy hair.
    â€œEither you’re playin’ me, or you’re about to walk into the spider’s parlor with a clue, mister.”
    â€œI came here because I was asked to,” said Rad, raising the tube to his eye line. “Someone wants this back. Sounds like you know who.”
    â€œOh, mister, mister,” said the barman, backing away and holding his hands up like Rad was asking him to open the register and start counting bills. “You gotta turn around now. Go back downtown.”
    â€œWhat’s so bad about uptown? Who lives up there?”
    â€œMister, everyone knows. Maybe not downtown , but around here, nothing goes on that doesn’t have something to do with the King.”
    Rad sniffed and placed the rod on the bar. The barman’s eyes were glued to it. Rad watched the barman as he slowly spun the rod on the damp wood top.
    â€œWho’s the King?”
    â€œCome on, mister!”
    Rad stopped moving the rod and waited until the barman dragged his eyes from it to Rad’s.
    â€œWho is the King?” said Rad with more force.
    The barman shook his head and dragged the towel off his shoulder only to slap it back across the other. He folded his arms and nodded again. “You must know who he is, if you said he wants that back.”
    â€œCan’t say I caught his name.”
    The barman shook his head again. “King isn’t his name. King is what he is . The King of 125th Street.”
    Rad smiled. “Seems a funny place to be king of.”
    The barman didn’t seem to like this. His eyes hardened and the thin smile vanished. “But that’s where he told you to go, right?”
    Rad held his breath for a moment, then let it out slowly. The creepy barman was right. The instructions had been simple: come to 125th Street, come at night. That was all Rad had got. He’d looked it up on a map back in his office but the map hadn’t shown anything except a street like any other, running across the upper part of the city, west to east, at a bit of an angle.
    â€œThe King of 125th Street…” said Rad, mostly to himself, but his words elicited more vigorous nodding from the barman.
    â€œLives in a castle.”
    Rad glanced up from the bar to the barman. “Lives in a… castle?”
    â€œThere’s a light on the top sometimes, green one.”
    â€œHuh,” said Rad. He was getting closer. Whoever this King was, he was involved with something fishy involving robot gangsters and a warehouse full of strange equipment and an army of tin soldiers. He could pay the King a little visit, find out more, and take the information to Jennifer Jones.
    â€œBut, mister, come on,” said the barman, pleading. “You gotta go home. Toss that thing in the river and forget you ever came to