The Angel and Billy Ray scooted up the front steps of the Jokertown precinct—locally known as Fort Freak—and slipped inside through one of the double wooden doors held open politely by a blue-uniformed patrolman. She’d never been inside the precinct before so she stopped for a moment to glance around and get her bearings.

Having worked for a number of years for SCARE, she was used to something less than luxurious surroundings. But this … If SCARE was the redheaded stepchild of federal law enforcement, then Fort Freak was clearly that child’s illegitimate offspring.

Though tidy, the reception area looked as if it had last been renovated during the depths of the Depression. The Angel could readily picture a kicking and screaming James Cagney being dragged through it by a couple of uniforms while shouting, “I’m gonna get you coppers!”

The floor, though clean enough, was worn linoleum tile that had clearly seen better decades. The wooden furniture—benches set against the faded walls, the handrails on the steps leading up to higher floors, the large desk that dominated the reception area’s rear wall—were all battle-scarred by cigarette burns, knife blades, and what looked like the occasional badly patched bullet hole. Ceiling lights and desk lamps were translucent glass bulbs that the Angel imagined were once lit by flickering gas flames.

The air was a dull mixture of sweat, long unwashed clothing, booze, vomit, harsh antiseptic, the not-quite-human ichor that flowed through the veins of some of the local citizens, and the desperation and fatalism that tore at their souls. It seemed to settle into her lungs like swamp fog blowing off a chemical waste dump.

She’d never imagined that someplace that could make her long for her sterile little cubical office down the hall from Fish and Game existed, but this was it.

Billy Ray stopped, turned, and looked at her, impatience on his face. His expression changed when he saw the look on hers. He grinned crookedly.

“Makes our little slice of reality look good, don’t it?”

She smiled weakly.

“Come on. The sooner we get this done, the sooner we can get out of this dump.”

She hurried to his side. The wide-open reception foyer buzzed with floor traffic, uniforms escorting criminals, obvious detectives and probably some not so obvious, on their important business, helpless and hopeless civilians wandering about with dazed looks in their eyes, all flavored with that special Jokertown aroma. Almost all the civilians were jokers, and more than a few of the cops, including the joker with sergeant stripes on his blue blouse. Enfolding bat wings depended from shoulders, as he sat high in judgment behind the elevated reception desk. He looked down speculatively, his eyes going back and forth between them, but straying, the Angel noted, more often to her rather than her husband.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Ray?” he asked.

Ray smiled, pleased, the Angel knew, at being recognized.