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worried, ya know? Give it to me straight, have I got a problem?’ And he said, ‘Man, I don’t think you’ve got a problem. I think you’re doing just fine !’” Cheers from the audience. Maggie smiled smugly. “Well, honey, everybody’s got problems, and I’m no exception.” The music came up. “But when I got problems, I got an answer, ’cause I can sing dem ole-time blues. Just sing my problems away.” She launched into “Ball and Chain,” and the audience went wild.
    Backstage, Wolf was sitting on a stepladder. He had bought a cup of water from a vendor and was nursing it, taking small sips. Cynthia came up and stood beside him. They both watched Maggie strutting on stage, stamping and sweating, writhing and howling.
    “I can never get over the contrast,” Wolf said, not looking at Cynthia. “Out there everybody is excited. Back here, it’s calm and peaceful. Sometimes I wonder if we’re seeing the same thing the audience does.”
    “Sometimes it’s hard to see what’s right in front of your face.” Cynthia smiled a sad cryptic smile and left. Wolf had grown used to such statements, and gave it no more thought.
    ***
    The second and final Hartford show went well. However, the first two concerts in Providence were bad. Maggie’s voice and timing were off, and she had to cover with theatrics. At the second show she had to order the audience to dance—something that had never been necessary before. Her onstage raps became bawdier and more graphic. She moved her body as suggestively as a stripper, employing bumps and grinds. The third show was better, but the earthy elements remained.
    The cast wound up in a bar in a bad section of town, where guards with guns covered the doorway from fortified booths. Maggie got drunk and ended up crying. “Man, I was so blitzed when I went onstage—you say I was good?”
    “Sure, Maggie,” Hawk mumbled. Cynthia snorted.
    “You were very good,” Wolf assured her.
    “I don’t remember a goddamned thing,” she wailed. “You say I was good? It ain’t fair, man. If I was good, I deserve to be able to remember it. I mean, what’s the point otherwise? Hey?”
    Wolf patted her shoulder clumsily. She grabbed the front of his dashiki and buried her face in his chest. “Wolf, Wolf, what’s gonna happen to me?” she sobbed.
    “Don’t cry,” he said. Patting her hair.
    Finally, Wolf and Hawk had to lead her back to the hostel. No one else was willing to quit the bar.
    They skirted an area where all the buildings had been torn down but one. It stood alone, with great gaping holes where plate glass had been, and large nonfunctional arches on one side.
    “It was a fast-food building,” Hawk explained when Wolf asked. He sounded embarrassed.
    “Why is it still standing?”
    “Because there are ignorant and superstitious people everywhere,” Hawk muttered. Wolf dropped the subject.
    The streets were dark and empty. They went back into the denser areas of town, and the sound of their footsteps bounced off the buildings. Maggie was leaning half-conscious on Hawk’s shoulder, and he almost had to carry her.
    There was a stirring in the shadows. Hawk tensed. “Speed up a bit, if you can,” he whispered.
    Something shuffled out of the darkness. It was large and only vaguely human. It moved toward them. “What—?” Wolf whispered.
    “Jennie-deaf,” Hawk whispered back. “If you know any clever tricks, this is the time to use ’em.” The thing broke into a shambling run.
    Wolf thrust a hand into a pocket and whirled to face Hawk. “Look,” he said in a loud, angry voice. “I’ve taken enough from you! I’ve got a knife , and I don’t care what I do!” The jennie-deaf halted. From the corner of his eye, Wolf saw it slide back into the shadows.
    Maggie looked up with sleepy, quizzical expression. “Hey, what…”
    “Never mind,” Hawk muttered. He upped his pace, half dragging Maggie after him. “That was arrogant,” he said approvingly.
    Wolf