know what he says.”
“Thanks.”
Carlos moves on to other customers.
Brigitte looks at me.
“Stark.”
“What?”
“Chihiro needs to come home.”
“It’s not the right time.”
“She said you said that, but I’m here to tell you that caution be damned. You’ll lose her if you keep pushing her away.”
“I told her we can do something around the end of the month.”
“She’s a dead woman. She lost her identity. She needs to be around the things that matter most to her.”
“We’re going to be working together for the agency.”
“And you’ll send her home alone every night. Your time in Hell might have taught you to plot strategy and when to strike, but it hasn’t helped you understand how people work. Chihiro isn’t a strategy and she isn’t someone who makes plans. She’s spontaneous and intuitive and more easily hurt than you might understand.”
That go-for-broke quality is one of the things I always liked about Candy. She went all in when she got into something, whether it was anime, being Doc Kinski’s assistant, or hooking up with me. I never thought of myself as a brain person, but maybe I’m turning into one. Like I said, it’s been a funny year.
“Let me think about it.”
“Don’t lie to me or her, and especially don’t lie to yourself. If you’re going to think, do it fully and soon.”
I want to change the subject, but I can’t ask Brigitte about her love life. Her lover, Father Traven, is dead.
“Has either of you seen a Fiddler in here tonight?”
Carlos looks around.
“How about Christopher Marlowe over there?”
Marlowe is by the jukebox chattering at one of Brigitte’s friends. The lady doesn’t seem interested.
Brigitte shakes her head.
“He’s wasting his time,” she says. “She doesn’t like men and she doesn’t speak English. I’ll rescue her and send him to you.”
She squeezes my hand.
“Think about what I said. What’s more important: Chihiro or one more little apocalypse?”
She goes over and says something to her friend. The woman goes back to the table, and when Marlowe turns his attention to Brigitte, she points at me. All the fun goes out of his face. He’s not scoring with any of the Euro girls tonight.
Marlowe comes over and puts his hands up like a robbery in a cowboy movie.
“I swear, Sheriff, I didn’t lay a hand on her.”
He’s boyishly handsome, wearing a green-striped shirt and khaki pants, looking a lot more J.Crew than Elizabethan. He’s not the real Christopher Marlowe, of course. At least I don’t think so. Last I heard, the real Marlowe is a vampire living happily in Tangiers. Still, I bet this Marlowe has a screenplay. There are more unproduced scripts in L.A. than rats.
“Relax. I’m not playing chaperone. Besides, Brigitte carries a gun, so she doesn’t need my help.”
Marlowe glances at her, back at the table with her friends.
“Thanks for the warning.”
“It was more friendly advice, but you’re welcome.”
He leans against the bar and orders a dirty martini. When Carlos goes off to make it, he turns to me.
“So, if you’re not minding the beauty’s business, why have you summoned me? Fashion advice? First, ditch the Johnny Cash coat. This is L.A., not the Grand Ole Opry.”
“Thanks. When I want advice from a Banana Republic catalog, I’ll come to you.”
Carlos brings him his drink and he pays.
“Carlos says you’re a Fiddler. Is that right?”
“Are you asking because you’re famous and want a favor?”
“Not at all. I’m a small businessman myself. I can pay.”
“Cash?”
“You can bill the agency.”
He looks at Carlos.
“Is this guy for real?”
“Yeah. He’s a regular Derek Flint these days. His boss comes in here all the time.”
“Fine,” he says. “Show me what you have.”
I hand him the knife.
“You looking for anything in particular? I’m good with dates and original owners.”
I put the utility cloth in my pocket.
“Just tell me anything you can tell me about it.”
Marlowe runs his fingers around the hilt, over and around the blade. He sniffs it. Presses the blade to his forehead.
“That’s weird.”
“What’s wrong?”
“There’s nothing on here, and I mean nothing. You’re not even on here and you just handed it to me.”
“Can you tell me how old it is or where it came from?”
He takes a gulp of his drink.
“What did I just say? There’s nothing here. I’ve never felt that before. It’s a complete blank.”
“Could someone do that with hoodoo?”
“Of course, but I’ve always been able to read through magic. This thing is wild. I might know buyers for something this special. I do consulting and appraising for some of the auction houses.”
I take back the knife.
“It’s not for sale.”
“Your loss,” he says, and finishes his drink. “Even though I didn’t find anything, it still counts as a reading, you know.”
“Sure. Bill me.”
He puts down his glass.
“This is pissing me off. Let me try it one more time.”
I hand him the knife.
“I want
