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Oh, hell.

Nothing to do about it now.

Canidy rolled the man over onto his back. When he did, Fuller moved the light, and it first found a wine bottle that had been between the man’s chest and the path.

Then he shined the beam from the man’s face down to his soiled shirt, then to his sodden pants. His fly was open, his penis barely out.

“The sonofabitch is stone-fucking-drunk,” Canidy announced. “And it would appear that he passed out in the process of pissing his pants.”

There was a moment’s silence before Fuller spoke up:

“At least it’s not gas poisoning….”

/> They came to the edge of Palermo. As they skirted a piazza, then reached an intersection that Canidy thought that he recalled, an obese cat suddenly bolted out of an alley.

It saw the three men and raced straight for them.

Fuller instinctively reached up to his shoulder strap and, with his big hands covering the pouch tied there, protected the mice from attack.

Then, just as suddenly, the cat made a ninety-degree turn and disappeared down another alley near the piazza.

As Fuller exchanged glances with Nola, Tubes looking somewhat embarrassed, a wiry dog came flying out of the first alley. It was apparent that he was looking around for the cat. When he found the cat was gone, he shook his body from nose to tail, clearly pleased with himself and his little game.

The dog looked at the men, wagged his tail twice, then turned back for the alley.

More signs of normal life, Canidy thought. Thank God.

Nola began leading the way again, making turns with the conviction of a citizen of Palermo that he was.

It’s interesting how attached they’ve become to the mice, Canidy found himself thinking.

Or maybe it’s not the mice.

Maybe it’s what the mice represent—a sure way to save their asses in a situation where, right now, nothing is for sure.

Because even now—especially now—the answers still are wildly unknown.

From the time they had left the drunk to sleep off his bender in the path near Arenella, Canidy had been running scenarios based on that encounter.

But what can you really make of one drunk?

No telling where that guy had been when the gas went up.

Or maybe it didn’t, and the sonofabitch was just plain stinking drunk.

Who knows?

We should, very shortly.

After another block, Canidy realized that they were headed back uphill.

“Where the hell are we going, Frank?” Canidy said.

“My cousin’s,” Nola said, “is ten blocks this way—”

“No,” Canidy said.

Nola and Fuller stopped and looked with some frustration at Canidy. Clearly, everyone was tired—and more than a little apprehensive.