LITMIR.BIZ

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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 to try something.”

      “Whatever you need to do, Kreskin.”

      He holds the knife with the tip straight up and just stares at it for a minute. Then puts the blade to his mouth, licking it from the hilt to the tip in one motion.

      Carlos looks at me. I don’t know if I’m getting my money’s worth out of Marlowe or just feeding some secret knife fetish.

      “If you’re going to popsicle that knife, it better be for business reasons.”

      “Fuck,” he says, and hands me back the knife. I take it using the utility rag and wrap it up without touching it. I’ll have Vidocq chamois it off again later.

      “There’s nothing on there,” he says. “I get the slightest trace of you, but nothing else. It’s like that thing is a black hole, sucking everything in. You’ve got to tell me where you got it. Are there any more like it?”

      “No, I don’t, and I don’t know. Just bill me for your time.”

      “Where should I send it?”

      “Bring it to Max Overdrive.”

      “Or he can leave it here,” says Carlos.

      “I think I’d be more comfortable here. That friend of yours with the metal hands creeps me the fuck out.”

      “He was even worse when he didn’t have a body.”

      “What?”

      “Nothing.”

      Marlowe holds up his glass for another drink.

      “Listen, I know buyers with way too much money on their hands. I won’t charge for the reading if you tell me where you got the knife.”

      “Sure. From a murder scene.”

      He shakes his head.

      “It doesn’t make sense. That’s the first thing I would have felt.”

      “But you didn’t and that’s all I need to know for now.”

      “If you find out who hexed the knife, I’ll pay you for the name.”

      “Maybe. I do enjoy the company of money.”

      Carlos sets the martini down in front of Marlowe.

      When he reaches for it, his hand goes limp. He knocks the glass over. It falls to the floor and he goes down with it, his body rigid and convulsing.

      I remember something about turning choking ­people on their sides, so I roll him over. Carlos comes around the bar and hands me a small blue bottle.

      “Get that down his throat,” he says.

      I roll Marlowe onto his back and pry his jaws apart enough to pour in a syrupy orange potion that smells like cat piss and bubble gum.

      It takes a minute for the convulsing to stop. I roll him back onto his side and soon he’s breathing normally.

      He opens his eyes and looks around, realizes he’s on the floor, and sits up.

      “What happened?”

      “You dosed yourself, jackass, when you licked the knife.”

      “I take back the offer. Keep that thing away from me.”

      I get his shoulders and wrestle him to his feet. There’s a crowd around us, but Carlos gets them back to their tables and drinking again. I set Marlowe on a bar stool. Carlos gives him a glass of water and he gulps it down. I wait for him to finish.

      “Did you see anything when you were unconscious?”

      He takes a long breath and lets it out.

      “Yeah,” he says. “It felt like I was dying and someone was coming for me.”

      “You mean, like Death?”

      He rolls the glass between his hands.

      “That’s the weird part. I knew it should be, I felt like it, but it wasn’t Death. It was someone else.”

      “You mean ‘something.’ ”

      “No. Someone.”

      I take the glass out of his hands and set it on the bar.

      “You should go home.”

      He looks at me, still woozy.

      “I’m billing you for a cab, too.”

      “Fine. But you owe Carlos for the potion that brought you around.”

      He takes out his wallet and slaps it on the bar. The leather is so expensive it looks like it came off an angel’s backside.

      “Take what you want,” he tells Carlos.

      He turns to me.

      “And you, get the fuck away from me. Don’t talk to me and don’t ever bring me any of your poison shit again.”

      Carlos already has his phone out. He pushes Marlowe’s wallet back at him. I reach over to get it, but knock it off the bar. I pick it up from the floor and hand it to him.

      “There’s a cab on the way,” Carlos says. “Keep your

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