Milos turned back to her, watching as she strode across the Promenade, peering down out of the angled windows, looking at the Afterlights in the court of honor. The children here now played games. The same games, day after day after day. “Things have certainly gotten better here since my arrival,” she told Milos, “but Pugsy is really more of a hindrance than a help, don’t you agree?”

Milos, who had no love of the Death Boss, said, “Of course I do.”

“Well then, I want you to … talk … to Pugsy. I want you to persuade him to leave Chicago. Forever.”

“I do not think this is possible,” Milos told her. “He will never leave Chicago of his own free will.”

Mary shrugged and raised her eyebrows. “Well, you said you wanted an impossible task; there it is.”

Milos considered it. “Persuade him, you say …”

“I’m certainly not suggesting anything unseemly… .”

“Of course not. You would never do such a thing.” Milos came to the window beside her, “And if I succeed?”

“If you succeed,” said Mary, “and Pugsy ceases to be a problem, you’ll have better things to do than fetch his sports scores.” Then she smiled. It wasn’t her usual warm, welcoming smile. This time it seemed steeped in intrigue and design. “Tell me, have you ever been to the West, Milos?”

“No,” he answered. “I have heard stories of skinjackers who jacked their way across the Mississippi, but they never returned. Are you planning an expedition?”

“If you accomplish the impossible,” Mary told him. “Perhaps I will too.”

Milos gently took her hand. “It is a pleasure to be in your service, Miss Hightower, Governess of the East, and soon to be West.” Then he raised her hand to his lips and gently kissed the silken, glowing back of her hand. He knew he was being too bold, and if ever there was a moment she would throw him out, this would be it, but instead she slowly withdrew her hand, and said, “You, Milos, could be very dangerous.”

To which he replied, “Is that an observation, or a request?”

That brought forth a laugh, but no answer. Perhaps because she was still undecided.

That night Pugsy Capone dined on lobster. There was always lobster, or steak, or good old Chicago Pizza since Mary became a part of his establishment. Her children diligently ventured out into the living world in search of crossed food, and her relationships with some fairly wellknown finders resulted in a trade surplus that kept Pugsy in the pink. Whatever he wanted, it was available. Even his own Chicago Afterlights were following suit, becoming busy bees, instead of lazy oafs.

“I’ve been thinking of declaring myself boss over Indianapolis, and then spreading East to Ohio,” he had told Mary. “Whadaya think?”

“It sounds visionary,” Mary had told him. “Stretch as far east as you like.”