A frail, wasted man, his teeth rotted, his complexion sallow, sat totally naked on a rickety chair by a broken window, oblivious to the rain that sprayed him after bouncing off the pane. He was working on a painting with short, incredibly swift brush strokes, muttering to himself as he continually retraced the outline of a beautiful woman’s face, never quite getting the proportions correct. Scattered around the floor were cheap containers filled with artificial diamonds, rubies, sapphires, and emeralds, a complex machine for covering base metals with gold plating, and a number of jeweler’s tools.

The man looked up at his two visitors, flashed them a brief, nervous smile, put a few more dabs of color onto his canvas, then casually tossed his palate onto the floor and turned to face Cain and the Swagman.

“Good afternoon, Yorick,” said the Swagman. “I wonder if we might have a few minutes of your time?”

Yorick stared at him for a moment, frowned, looked back at his canvas, and then turned to him once more, a puzzled expression on his face.

“You’re not in my painting,” he said at last.

“No,” said the Swagman. “I’m in your room.”

“My room?” repeated Yorick.

“That’s right.”

“Well,” he said with a shrug, “it had to be one or the other.” He stared intently at the Swagman. “Do I know you?”

“You know of me: I’m the Jolly Swagman.”

Yorick lowered his head, still frowning. “Jolly, jolly, jolly, jolly, jolly,” he murmured. Suddenly he looked up. “I don’t know you, but I know of you,” he said with a satisfied smile. He turned to Cain. “I know you, though.”

“You do?” said Cain.

“You’re the Songbird,” he said emphatically, suddenly rational. “I know all about you. I was on Bellefontaine when you killed the Jack of Diamonds. That was some Shootout.” Suddenly his face went blank again. “Shootout,” he said as if the word had lost its meaning. “Shootout, Shootout, shootout.” And just as quickly as it had come, the emptiness left his wasted face. “What are you doing here, Songbird?”

“I need a little information,” said Cain, sitting down on the edge of Yorick’s unmade bed.

“I need a little something, too,” said Yorick with a wink and a cackle. “A lot of little somethings. Chewy little somethings, sweet little somethings.”

“Maybe we can work out a trade,” said Cain.

“Maybe maybe maybe,” said Yorick, spitting out the words in staccato fashion. “Maybe we can.” He paused, then suddenly looked alert. “How about a trade?” he suggested.

“Good idea,” said Cain.

“Why is he here?” asked Yorick, gesturing to the Swagman.

“He likes your paintings,” said Cain.

“Oh, he does, does he?” Yorick cackled. “He likes more than that. So you’re the Swagman, are you?”

“The one and only,” said the Swagman.