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afraid.
Thorn asked patiently:  What happened last time?
She looked up at him, her head bobbing with the rhythm of the continuing
massage.  Helen ran away and got as far as Chicago. Some jerk there had her
acting in porn movies. She wasn t basically like that at all.
 I see. And do you think that this jerk, as you call him, is the long-lost
lover she has now rejoined?
 Oh no. Not him, never. She doesn t hate herself that much. But she did talk
to me about someone else she met on the road, a boy who meant something to
her. She told me his name was Pat. I don t know if he was involved in the porn
factory thing or not, but she must have known him at about the same time.
 Pat was a runaway too?
Mary thought.  I got the impression from Helen that he was older, a little
older anyway. Not a runaway any more, an independent adult. No, independent is
not the right word for what adults are like when they ve grown up that way, on
the road. I ve seen a bunch of them. Lost, usually. Isolated. That s what they
tend to be like when they manage to grow up at all.
Miller said:  Come to think of it, I do seem to remember hearing Helen once
mention someone called Pat. With a kind of wistful look in her eye.
 O Grandison, that was his last name! Mary had suddenly come up with it.  Oh,
Rob, that must have been Helen on the phone. Oh, my poor baby. I remember now.
She used to say Pat had talked to her about making good films, wishing he
could help make them, something like that.
And here, unexpected by either man, came tears. Miller, still rubbing Mary s
neck tenderly, tried to react lightly.
 Mother Mary, he joked.
 Don t laugh at me.
 I m not. He squeezed her neck muscles firmly again and looked at Thorn.
 What do you think?
 I think, said Thorn,  that in the matter of making vile films in Chicago,
and in the matter of this Mr.
O Grandison, I may be able to learn something. I repeat that I am not an
official investigator of any kind, but in the course of an active life one
forms connections.
EIGHT
My Medici connection was going to be of no direct help in learning whether the
woman I sought was in fact within the walls of the palazzo
Boccalini. In fact if the alliance became known to the Boccalini it would have
the opposite effect, for the two families were rivals, at odds in all sorts of
Florentine affairs. My friends the Medici were of course the stronger, but I
could not expect them to use their power too nakedly. Their rule in the city
was a subtle thing, based on the maintenance of harmony among factions; and
although King Matthias s gratitude would mean much to them as traders, it
would not be worth upsetting a Florentine political balance already teetering
with the impact of
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Cosimo s recent death. Lorenzo assured me of his family s continued help, but
also made sure that I understood its limits. If I was willing to be patient,
in a few days a Boccalini servant could doubtless be bribed, a spy perhaps
planted in their household.
But my nature was impatient to begin with, and anyway it did not seem to me
that I had time to spare. If Helen was not after all with the Boccalini, I was
wasting time; on the other hand, if she was, not only might her life be in
peril but her identity could be exposed at any time. In view of this I told
Lorenzo that speed was necessary; and, within a few hours of leaving
Verrocchio s workshop, my young benefactor and I had agreed upon another
scheme.
At that time there was in Florence I think the building may be still standing,
near the Mercato Vecchio an inn known as the Tavern of the Snail. This snail
was much frequented by the adventurous young bloods of the leading families,
the Boccalini in particular. Therefore we felt safe in gambling that one or
two Boccalini youth would approach the place that very night, or at worst
within the next few evenings. As events turned out, our most optimistic hopes
were justified.
Lorenzo had three or four reliable men stationed in ambush, along the route
our game would most probably take.
The scion of the Medici did not, of course, place himself among the ambushers.
He could not afford to have his involvement in the affair discovered, and in
any case his skills were not those of physical violence. My own part was to
wait as patiently as possible in concealment nearby. As soon as the pretended
robbers had sprung their trap I was to bound out, crying for the watch, and
rush upon them with drawn sword.
As I have said, we were lucky on the first night, and carried it off well
enough. One of the paid ruffians, playing his part with cheeky skill there is
nothing easier than to ruin a plan of this kind by a lack of convincing effort
by all concerned offered me resistance, whereupon I ran him through the arm, a
touch of authenticity he had perhaps not been expecting. After I had drawn
blood, there was nothing more to be seen in the dark street of the attackers,
and nothing heard of them but their fast-flying footsteps in retreat.
My eyes had had a long time to grow accustomed to the poor light, and I could
get a fairly good look at the two
Boccalini. They had managed to get their backs against a wall, side by side,
and were now slumped down somewhat in that position. Both had weapons drawn,
both were panting and cursing, and one was bleeding in a minor way.
Besides ourselves the street was now deserted, the hour of curfew long since
past. As a rule curfew received little attention from young hell-raisers like
these, of good political connections. Nearby dogs were ravening bravely at our
recent dueling noises, their canine courage fortified by stone walls.
Warily I moved a little closer to the two dim figures.  Are you hurt,
gentlemen? The pigs have taken to their heels.
The Boccalini snarled, grumbled, groaned, at Fate, at the world in general, at
their attackers, at me. Then the smaller of the pair stood up straight and
offered me at last some words of gratitude. From Lorenzo s briefing I
thought I could recognize him as the eldest brother of the younger generation,
Sandro.
We all three sheathed our blades, and introductions were informally exchanged.
It was apparent that Sandro s younger brother Guilio was bleeding from his
wrist rather more than could cheerfully be disregarded. An attempt at
bandaging the wound with a strip of clothing failed to stanch the flow
sufficiently, and the two young men decided that the tavern could wait, and
that a retreat to their home was in order. It may have been in the minds of
both brothers that assassination rather than robbery could have been the
motive for the attack. Their family was certainly not without enemies, and
assassins would be more likely than footpads to have a second try. At any
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rate, I was invited to go with them, and accepted with inner jubilation that I
had not had to spend hours with them in the Tavern of the Snail before the
invitation came.
Their house, no great distance away, was as Lorenzo had described it to me, a
smaller, older, less well-built version of the Medici palace. A great barred
door was opened to our shouts and pounding, and at once there came a rush of
startled servants to care for Guilio. I followed the excitement through halls
and a small open courtyard to a room where there was a soft couch for him to
lie upon. On the way I kept my eyes open and took note of several girls and
young women, dressed differently than the regular servants, in a gaudy style
suggestive of the bordello. Though I
looked sharply at each face, I could not recognize my Magdalen.
No sooner had we laid Guilio on this couch than with another rush we were
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