Jerry returned to the counter and passed the man a wad of bills. They vanished quickly into a jacket pocket. The weapon was now completely covered by the handkerchief. The man straightened and slid from the stool, eyes and weapon still upon the bartender. As he moved backward and began to turn the chair lurched to reposition itself. His foot struck it and he stumbled, throwing out his hands to save himself.

As he sprawled, the mug rose from the counter and sped toward his head. When it connected, he lay still. The weapon in its white wrapping sped across the floor to vanish beneath the performer's platform in the corner.

Dan finished his song and took another drink. Jerry was beside the man, recovering the money. A knot of people had already formed at that end of the room.

"That was very strange."

He turned his head. It was Betty Lewis who had spoken. She had left the table near the wall where she had been sitting, sipping something, and approached the platform.

"What was strange?" he said.

"I saw that chair move by itself--the one he tripped on."

"Probably someone bumped it."

"No."

Now she was looking at him rather than the scene across the room.

"The whole thing was very peculiar. The mug ..." she said. "Funny things seem to happen when you're playing. Usually little things. Sometimes it's just a feeling."

He smiled.

"It's called mood. I'm a great artist."

He fingered a chord, ran an arpeggio. She laughed.

"No, I think you're haunted."

He nodded.

"Like Cheevy. By visions."

"Nobody's listening now," she said. "Let's sit down."

"Okay."

He leaned his guitar against the stool and took his beer to her table.

"You write a lot of your own stuff, don't you?" she said, after they had seated themselves.

"Yes."

"I like your music and your voice. Maybe we could work out a thing where we do a couple of numbers together."