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"This place is a bloody deathtrap!"

The fire inspector was a tall, muscular man in his mid-thirties. He had short blond hair and piercing blue eyes, and he sported a full beard that made him look like a tame viking. I got the impression he was not someone you wanted to push around, certainly not the type you could smooth-talk, let alone bribe into seeing through his fingers with the numerous flaws in our fire safety.

He fumed, and poked the ceiling mounted sprinkler valve with the pointy end of a screwdriver.

"This type of system went out of use in the eighties."

He sent us a suspicious glance.

"How did you EVER pass the previous fire inspections?"

"Err," I explained, "We've only recently taken over the place."

This much was true. The _Phantom Cat_had been under our ownership for six months, but what I didn't tell the inspector was how the previous official had been a pushover for Irene's suggestive powers.

He shot me a disgusted look and scribbled comments in a ring bound notebook.

"Worst thing I've seen."

The fire inspector walked through the night-club, pointing out our every failure to fire proof the club.

"Fire extinguishers: none."

"Fire blankets.... None."

"Fire exit - blocked by an upright piano."

"Hallway sprinkler ..."

"Oh?"

The fire inspector made a brief stop in front of a framed photograph of_Oscar Peterson_ sitting by the piano, wiping sweat off his forehead with a cotton cloth.

I thought I knew all the photos that decorated the walls of the Phantom Cat, but I didn't remember having seen this one before.

"Peterson played here?"

"Sure," interrupted Irene. "In 1983, with Joe Pass and... whatshisname?"

"Orsted on bass," added the inspector, apparently softening up. "I caught their act in Vancouver."

The fire inspector turned his attention to Irene, ignoring me. I had the feeling Irene was working this guy over, but I remained clueless as to how she did it.

Where was his weak spot? _Sex? Guilt? Nostalgia?_Irene knows how to wiggle her way into people's emotions and butter them up, until they cave in. Katryn appeared from the office, carrying a framed color print. The ink was barely dry. "Move it!" she grinned, pushing me aside. She glanced at the fire inspector and quietly swapped a portrait of Charlie Parker for Joni Mitchell while his back was turned..

"Are you out of your skull?" I hissed. "Joni never played here. She doesn't even play jazz, except from that one album that sucked."

"Go make coffee or something, and let the girls do the work." Kat grinned and winked at me.

Since Kat joined us, she and Irene have become best friends. We work well as a team and the place was looking better than ever. But I often get the feeling the two girls share a special bond. One that I don't understand. Their connection makes me uneasy. Irene and I have issues with reality, as does Quinn. But Kat was an innocent. I didn't want her to get caught up with our troubled world, and the network of government agents that can't decide whether to kill us, lock us up - or write out a paycheck.

"Irene's about to go voodoo on him, isn't she? She swore never to use her powers again."

"You'd rather see this place get shut down?" Kat whispered back and ushered me out of the door.

"Now, shoo!"

I sighed and turned on the espresso machine. It sure didn't take a lot to make Irene back down from her promise. I knew she would do anything to keep this place, but she seemed too eager, too willing to break her oath. It felt like she was only looking for any excuse to probe into somebody's mind.

Moments later, the two girls arrived in the kitchen, where the fire inspector filled out a number of forms.

"Alright," he said. "Just make sure things are in order next time."

"Deal," said Irene and they shook hands.

With the fire inspector out of the way, I gave the girls the meanest look I can muster in my human form, which isn't much, and it makes me look nearsighted.

"Okay...How?" I asked.

"Nostalgia," replied Irene. "He's from Toronto, so we went with a Canadian theme. Heck, if we had any frames left, we'd swap Charlie Parker for RUSH."

I sighed. "But you made a promise..."

"Don't be such a sourpuss," laughed Kat. "We're off the hook for another six months ."

Quietly, Irene studied the low roof. "He's right though. This place IS a firetrap. We need a new sprinkler system before the next check."

Kat kicked a bar stool across the floor. "That will set us back thousands. Money we don't have."

Irene shrugged. "We gave it a shot. Maybe the circus will take me back. With my powers, I can make even _Pippo the clown_look funny to the local gadjos. " She laughed, but her laugh was hollow and we stared at each other in silence, until the sound of my phone ringing broke it.

"It's HIM again," I said.

"Answer it!" shouted both girls.

I closed my eyes and felt the answer button throb with every beat of my pulse. I swear, Quinn can sniff money trouble from across the city.

"Hey, buddy! I got a case for you," Quinn sounded excited, like a sparrow that has just found a ripe horse plop.

"Wonderful! It's just what i needed," I replied, struggling to keep my sarcasm under lid.

"So, whaddaya got?"

"Triple homicide." he beamed. "And a messy one at that. You're gonna love it!"

---

I was alone in the kitchen, opening a pack of chicken fillet strips when the first signs of an episode set in. The meat was sealed in a protective atmosphere to keep it from going off, but a sense of repulsion was growing inside my brain;

the fillet strips didn't look right.

I couldn't point my finger at what was wrong with them, but my every fiber screamed that chicken casserole would be off the menu tonight. I tilted the package and the strips tumbled like pale, naked humans, twisting and embracing one another as protecting themselves from an impending disaster. Like the contorted victims of Pompeii when toxic gas and ash descended on them, choking and burning its way through house and men. The more I looked at the chicken pieces, the more they resembled skinless torsos.

I can _'t eat this!_ I objected_. I don_'t eat humans.

Sweating profoundly, I turned on the fan and caught my own reflection in the polished steel faucet. My face was twisted and out of proportion. But it was a human face staring back, not the hateful leonine face with horns and fangs that claims to be part of me.

"I am not demon-kin," I told my reflection. I'm just a guy who is going full schizo... again."

I took a deep breath and convinced myself there was nothing wrong with the food;

it was edible, dead tissue, nothing more.

Remember, it's all because of a chemical imbalance in your brain. So get a grip and make the damn incision.

I meant to say casserole, but as I held the package in my hand I grew convinced I was holding my own head and I was about to give myself a lobotomy by slicing through the plastic cover.

"It's NOT my brain!" I cursed, gritting my teeth. "It's chicken meat, and opening it up won't hurt."

I cut through the tough dura mater_with the tip of a steak knife, when a thick, oily stench escaped the pack with an audible hiss. Soon the kitchen was filled with an overpowering stench of magnolia blooms soaked in cod liver oil. It was the stench of disease and tumorous specimens donated to science and doing breaststroke in formaldehyde. I gagged and turned on the extractor hood, full blast. I opened the windows and reached for a spray can of O_cean __B_ reeze_, but nothing could drown out the vileness erupting from the rotting chicken.

Three down, one to go.

The voice came out of nowhere and filled my mind like a thunderclap.

"THREE... DOWN."

The words, first a thought only, flowed from my mind and materialized into the deep unnatural voice of a hill giant gurgling razor blades.

"THREE!" roared the voice.

"Three WHAT?" I clenched my ears and screamed.

Irene heard my screams and stormed into the kitchen.

"ONE..."

"It's the damn chicken!" I shouted, still covering my ears.

Irene put her nose to the fillets. "You're right," she said.

"TO..."

"they have a bit of an off smell."

"GO!"

"They are evil!" I cried. "We gotta stop them."

Irene took the meat outside and dumped it in the trash bin. She returned moments later and looked at me in silence, arms akimbo.

"You're dropped your medication." She stated bluntly.

I sat on the counter, resting my head against the wall.

"I can't investigate when I'm on meds," I said. "I need my senses, even if I can't trust half of them."

"Don't DO this to yourself," shouted Irene. "Keep this up, and you'll end up in the nuthouse."

"Already been there," I groaned. "And we need every penny Quinn can afford me."

Irene lit two cigarettes and offered me one. I sucked the life out of the smoke like a calf to a tit, reveling in every atom of nicotine.

"_Mo-ther-FUCK!_I needed that," I rasped on the retro-hale. Slowly, the world returned to normal.

"What did you... see?" Irene asked quietly.

"I'm not sure," I replied. "Something about three out of four being dead."

"Three?" Irene said thoughtfully. "Quinn said he had a triple homicide for you."

"I guess that leaves one future victim?"

Irene grabbed me by the shoulders and looked me straight in the eyes.

"Look, I want to keep _the Phantom Cat_as much as you do -maybe even more. But it's not worth losing your mind over. "

"I can handle it," I lied. "I'll do this last case for Quinn. Then I'll call it the quits."

"Promise?"

"I swear, on my mother's grave."

"Your mother is alive and well."

"On my sister's honor, then?"

Irene sighed. "Just be careful."

I grabbed my coat and was on my way out of the door, when it struck me that Irene could have used her talent for messing with people's minds to make me reconsider. But I didn't feel her presence inside my mind.

"You could have stopped me, you know."

"I know," she said. "But I made a promise too."

---