The Bonne Hotel comes up through the smog like a silver spike, right across from the Ardmore terrace. There used to be a dry cleaner and gazette vendor there once. Some mutt, maybe Blackie, wanders around a few streets back. Too far away to be sure. Not a lot of pedestrian traffic.

The Ardmore's older. Its tan stone worn by ages of sand blasting. Still has a clean look to it, but like me, seems outdated and worn. Think it was a bank building once. Almost anything with Doric columns fronting it used to be a bank, in my book.

Now, low-end accountancy firms riddle it like cockroach nests. An occasional lawyer, barber or jeweler hole up there. The Bonn makes its money off out-of-town tax evaders waiting to see the accountants at the Ardmore, a hefty convention trade, and the rare tourist. Not so great a business that they worry about little things,like guests without luggage. I register for a small room. The clerk eyes me briefly; offers a reasonable rate. My Mac isn't a really good match for the sports-coat, and the fedora matches neither. Isn't hard to peg me for a local. Even so, if this didn't lead me to paying work, I was going to ask Mic for some of the 100 Cr back. I shower up as soon as I hit the room. Feel like a peeled egg after, and fall asleep on the clean sheets.

Dinnertime, I walk in to Suite 32 at the Ardmore. It's the building's Bistro. Doors flanked with potted palms and a sandwich board. Funny names like "cheddar and smoked pork on fresh cut planks nestled in greens" substitute for "ham sandwich" and water gets served in a carafe. It closes at seven, about an hour after the building gets generally vacated, in the vain hope of attracting a supper crowd. It's empty now, with only a couple trainee wait-staffers busing tables and preparing to close, but mostly checking their watches and trying to be invisible.

She isn't hard to spot. I guess about five-four, ninety-some pounds, young, maybe twenty-three. Looks haunted and stiff, eyes wide, like the saucer under the tea cup she was nursing. Get a little wider as I walk up to her table.

"Mr. Wander?"

"Call me Richie. You sent me the cube, right? May I ask what this is all about, Miss...?"

"I, I met you once at the hospital...you probably don't remember. You gave me your card. I was there to see my father, you were waiting to see about an implant?"

This starts to ring bells. Used to hand out a lot of cards, when I had cards. At least it's a start. The girl's eyes constantly moves away from me to the door, then back.

"Becky. Becky Randall. Someone was going through all my correspondence at the clinic." She hesitates, biting her lip. "I am being followed, Richie. I dare not stay anywhere long...Oh, it's a long story..."

"Miss Randall, Can I sit? You can talk and I'll order us more tea." I hate tea, but anything to get the story out of the client.

"My father was an organic surgical researcher at St John's. Specialized in implant surgery. You know what that is?"

"Something to do with developing implants? Just a guess."

"Close enough. Two weeks ago, he was found crushed in a fall from the sixth floor of the hospital. It was ruled an accident, no signs of a struggle, or suicide note."

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"Kind of small, those windows."

" It was a medical office window--a slider, not the standard ones in patient rooms. I was devastated. Had a complete breakdown, in fact. I was placed in a clinic for observation. While there, I began to notice people watching my room, always the same ones. Mail sent to friends from the clinic started to arrive late, or not at all. One friend told me the letter he received looked to have been opened. Other things. Just before I got out, I had one of the clinic nurses drop off the cube to your office. I, I think people are looking for me...I don't think my father's death was accidental. I left the coded message at BC's hoping," she bit her lip, "to get you here... I don't want to seem to be, involved with anyone...know where I am or what I'm doing...I wasn't sure you could even figure out the cube, just a hope."

"Someone knew about the cube. They called me about it. Must have followed the girl you sent, maybe saw you buy the cube. Got curious. You did have it dropped off at a P.I's office."

"Oh! I thought I was being so clever, I guess I'm not very good at it, Mr. Wander. I'm just frightened witless! Could you follow up on my father's death? Try to find out who's doing this?"

Her story sounded rehearsed, but I get that from clients sometimes. I try to draw her out a little.

"My office got tossed, by people looking for that toy. Dockside people. Your dad involved with anybody like that ?"

"No, he was just involved in his work, other professionals in the same area of research. All his friends were co-workers or associates. You still have it? The cube, I mean."

I knew Mic would have the codes down pat, and didn't see why I should disturb the woman, so, I just nodded. Besides I hadn't checked in with Mic. For all I knew, it might still be there.

"Do you have a list of some of those?"

Becky scrambles in her black pocket book, pulling out a folded paper. "I thought you might ask. I wrote down some names from the hospital."

I raise my hand. "We need to discuss my fee first, Miss Randal. I'd need maybe a 1000 Cr retainer, 50 Cr per hour for any time over 20 hours. You would have to agree to pick up any reasonable expenses on top of that. Is that something you could handle? How do we keep in touch?"

The fee is more than I usually get, but I'd already opened my big mouth and promised to split the job with Mic. Besides, it never hurts to ask.

"I , I bought two puzzle cubes in the gift shop and marked them up. Thought I could use it as a code block, leave you messages somewhere, Oh, I don't know. I haven't thought this through. Money I can arrange for. What do you suggest?"

I think about the mutt. Maybe I could use Blackie. Mic, if he was still in one piece, could handle the coding and decoding. I have to come up with something to satisfy the dame's paranoia fast, to nail the account. Probably just a gambling debt she knew nothing about. Parents don't tell their kids everything. Maybe the mob was trying to collect off the daughter.

"There's a rail station two blocks from here, a cafeteria facing the street. I can send an enhanced dog there, a black and white mongrel. He can deliver messages between us for now. Keep using your...code, if you like. I can meet with you anywhere you want, to report. You can look for the mutt at noon every other day. The money?"

"I don't have that much on me, but a, a friend can see you get paid." She passes me a set of six bingo cards. "Take these. St. Andrews is holding Bingo tonight. They pre-sell the cards, to boost support for their annual fund raiser. Some of those cards will be worth your 1500 Cr. Keep the extra 500 Cr as a bonus for your trouble, pay you for your time. I'm trying to stay away from my bank or from using regular credit right now, till this gets settled."

"This friend can't just hand me the money?"

"I, I don't want to involve anyone else in an obvious way."

Weirder and weirder. I could send Mic. If this panned out, I could be employed tonight.

"You need a place to stay?"

"I have a place, temporarily. I won't be there long though. I'm taking care of that."

Doesn't hurt to try. I pocket the six cards and pay for the tea--gentleman that I am. I walk out in a good mood. It looks like meat on the table for a while, and if Mic managed to nudge a little information out of the collector of the cube, I could return to working out of my office.