Strangers

dead man in the navy peacoat, and Brendan quickly moved out of their way. He backed up until he bumped against the service counter, where he leaned in sudden exhaustion, staring at his hands.
        For a few days following the first appearance of the rings, he had used the cortisone prescribed by Dr. Heeton at St. Joseph's, but when the rings had not reappeared, he had soon stopped applying the lotion. He had almost forgotten about the marks. They had been a curiosity-baffling, but of little concern. Now, as he looked at the strange marks, he heard the voices of those around him, fuzzy and strange:
        "Jesus, the blood!"
        "Can't be alive… twice in the chest."
        "Get the fuck out of my way!"
        "Plasma!"
        "Type his blood. No! Wait… do it in the ambulance."
        Brendan finally looked at the crowd around Winton Tolk. He watched the paramedics as they worked to keep the wounded man alive, get him on a stretcher, and move him out of the sandwich shop.
        He saw a cursing policeman dragging the dead man out of the doorway to make it easier for the paramedics to exit with Tolk.
        He saw Paul Armes moving along beside the stretcher.
        He saw that the blood in which Tolk had been lying was not merely a pool but a lake.
        He looked at his hands again. The rings were gone.
        

    4.
        

    Las Vegas, Nevada
        
        The Texan in the yellow Day-Glo polyester pants would not have tried to get Jorja Monatella into bed if he had known she was in the mood to castrate someone.
        Although it was the afternoon of December 24, Jorja was not yet in the Christmas spirit. Usually even-tempered and easygoing, she was in an exceedingly sour state of mind as she strode back and forth through the casino, from the bar to the blackjack tables and back to the bar again, delivering drinks to the gamblers.
        For one thing, she hated her job. Being a cocktail waitress was bad enough in a regular bar or lounge, but in a hotel casino bigger than a football field, it was a killer. At the end of a shift, her feet ached, and often her ankles were swollen. The hours were irregular, too. How were you supposed to provide a stable home for a seven-year-old daughter when you did not have a job with normal hours?
        She also hated the costume: a little red nothing, cut high in the crotch and hips, very low at the bustline, smaller than a bathing suit. An elastic corset was built in to minimize the waistline and emphasize the breasts. If you were already small-waisted, with generous breasts - as Jorja was - the getup made you look almost freakishly erotic.
        And she hated the way the pit bosses and casino floormen were always hitting on her. Maybe they figured any girl who would strut her stuff in an outfit like that was an easy lay.
        She was sure that her name had something to do with their attitude as well: Jorja. It was cute. Too cute. Her mother must have been drunk when she got creative with the spelling of Georgia. It was all right when people heard it, because they had no way of knowing she spelled it cute, but she had to wear a name tag on her costume - JORJA - and at least a dozen people a day commented on it. It was a frivolous name, misspelled like that, so it gave them the idea she was a frivolous person. She had considered going to court to have the proper spelling made legal, but that would hurt her mother. However, if guys at work kept hitting on her, she might even have it changed to Mother Teresa, which ought to cool off some of the horny bastards.
        And fending off the bosses was not the worst of it. Every week, some high-roller - a bigshot from Detroit or L A. or Dallas, dropping a bundle at the tables - would take a shine to Jorja and ask the pit boss to fix him up with her. A few cocktail waitresses were available - not many, but a few. But when the pit bosses approached Jorja, her answer was always the same: "To hell with him. I'm a waitress, not a hooker."
        Her routine, cold refusal did not stop them from pressuring her to relent, which they had done an hour ago. A wart-faced, bug-eyed oilman from Houston - in phosphorescent yellow pants, a blue shirt, and a red string tie-one of the hotel's favored clients, had gotten the hots for her and had made inquiries. His breath stank of the burritos he had eaten for lunch.
        Now the bosses were angry with her for refusing a highly valued customer,