He moved past her toward the loo. Could this be a homosexual bar? No. Clearly not. Owning a club in New York as she did, she could tell the sexual orientation of a place at a glance.

From the bar, another man said,“You speak the French of Voltaire, lady. All those ‘thees’ and ‘thous.’ ”He raised his voice, mocking her,“ ‘Cans’t thou render me assistance? Mays’t I take a flame?’ We call it a ‘match,’ now. New word! Where are you from?”

“The past,” she snapped. She got to her feet. To hell with the French, if they were no longer interested in a pretty girl.

“Oh, mademoiselle, please, I am just making conversation! Don’t be so quick.You must be an American.You learned your French in school.Well, you had an old teacher. Damned old, I’d say! But that can’t be held against you.”

He was plump. The back of his hands revealed the telltale blue streaks that suggested that the drinking veins would be nice and big. The flow of the carotid would be delightfully powerful.

She gave him a slow, careful smile, the kind that made the males pant. She had practiced smiling for years, and she considered herself an artiste. As soon as she showed her rows of perfectly believable but entirely artifi-cial human teeth, he came to her table.

Finally. She responded with practiced indifference. Smile too eagerly, and he would back off . . . at least, that used to be their way.

“You are not telling me to go?”

She shrugged.

In a lower voice, he asked, “Is this going to cost me?”

“A little.” Meaning everything you value the most—your breath, your blood, your very life.

“Then you’re for real—a whore staking out the rear table in a café. It’s so—I don’t know—charmant. So ‘old Paris!’ And that language and the ancient suit. You are from the past. Look, I don’t mean to spoil the effect, but I have only a couple hundred francs.”

“How sad.”

“Do you take credit cards?”

How could he ask something so profoundly stupid? A whore who took credit cards, indeed. She sucked in smoke, let it drift slowly out.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that.”

“Excuse me, my sir?”

“I gave it up. Bad for the chest.” He tapped his breast, expanded his lungs, let the breath out. “Bet you couldn’t manage that.”

She could hold her breath for an hour. Keepers could drown, but it was not an easy death. For them, in fact, there were no easy deaths. The very body, every bone and sinew, was fanatically devoted to life. Man had the immortal soul, not his Keepers. Man could afford to die. Keepers had to stay alive forever, if possible.

Miriam put out her cigarette.

“You have the loveliest hands,” he said, watching her.