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What was he doing? What was he thinking? It was less than a day now, less than twenty hours. ‘Who in the name of heaven is this Leonardo? And why did he kiss you?’ ‘He was an Italian soldier, and he wanted to kiss me,’ Melusine said, goaded. Somebody to whom she would be necessary, who for days would have to depend upon her for the needs of life. She killed a man who was squatting outside of a freezing brick shanty on the southern edge of Chicago as he waited for his dealer. “Yes, I will go,” she promised, with a queer little smile.
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