LITMIR.BIZ

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take her arm to pull her in closer so we can talk quietly.

      “You haven’t heard any talk about High Plains Drifters, have you?”

      “No. Nothing. Is this about the man Chihiro talks about? Do you think he’s a revenant?”

      “To tell the truth, no. I just don’t want him to be who he says he is.”

      “You’re afraid of another apocalypse.”

      “No. Just a lot of goddamn trouble. If this guy is Death, the ­people who killed him aren’t going to be hard to find, and I guarantee they’re going to be unsympathetic.”

      “How do you know it’s more than one person?” says Carlos.

      “I don’t, but I also don’t see someone pulling off this kind of hoodoo all on his lonesome. You’re talking about capturing an angel in a human body . . . and that’s after you find the right body. Then you need to know the hexes and magicians who can pull them off. Then you need a weapon that can kill him. On top of that, you need a motive. Why kill Death? There are potions that will keep you going for a hundred years. Yeah, they’re expensive, but it’s easier to rob a bank than shanghai an angel.”

      “How does one kill an angel?” says Brigitte.

      “With this.”

      I take the knife from my coat and unwrap it on the bar.

      “It looks quite ordinary,” she says.

      “It’s not. It was thinking seriously of burning down Vidocq’s place.”

      “It looks Roman,” says Carlos. “Like an antique Roman dagger. See the silver eagle? Legions used to have those on their standards.”

      “How the hell do you know all that?”

      He clears away some glasses and pours Brigitte more wine.

      “My brother-­in-­law. Ex-­brother-­in-­law. He’s crazy for old weapons. He has something like that. I can send him a picture if you want and see what he knows.”

      “This brother-­in-­law of yours, is he the person who’s been slipping you potions?”

      Carlos tries to suppress a smile, shrugs.

      “He dabbles in a lot of things.”

      “He’s a magician, isn’t he? You married into a Sub Rosa family.”

      He nods.

      “She kept it from me most of the time we were together. Her family thought I wasn’t worthy and I think maybe she did a little too. You were the first person I met who did real magic right out in the open. After seeing that, I knew I’d been right to leave.”

      “If she hid it, was she into baleful magic?”

      “Baleful?”

      “Black magic,” says Brigitte.

      Carlos carefully arranges a Santa hat on a small plastic hula girl.

      “I don’t know if her magic was black, but her soul turned dark. That’s what I meant about ­people changing. First figuring out that she was a real bruja. Then finding out she wasn’t the only one. Then seeing her go to darker places. I didn’t know what she was looking for, but I knew I didn’t want any part of it.”

      I say, “You knew about our funny little world, but played innocent this whole time.”

      He shakes his head.

      “This? Lurkers and zombies and shit? I didn’t know any of that. And it’s cool at the bar. But home I like boring. The only magic I want there is in games and bad movies.”

      “It was cruel of your wife not to tell you who she really was,” Brigitte says.

      Carlos cocks his head.

      “We had some good times. And anyway, my brother-­in-­law and me get along fine. Want me to send him a picture?”

      “Go ahead.”

      Carlos takes out his phone, clicks a picture, and thumbs in a message.

      “I’ll let you 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

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