with the laconic shrug of a man who’s been asked that question many, many times before. It made me feel self-conscious. After all, it’s not like I’ve ever won the John Doe Prize for Everyday Names; I guess people who live in Radar-shaped houses shouldn’t throw stones. But Hines was already past it, on to other subjects. He asked with self-deprecation, “What gave away my play?”
I didn’t know where to begin. To the trained eye, everything about his approach—the overly overt pigeon drop, the all-text-no-subtext betting slip, the call to the alleged lawyer—shrieked amateur antic. Even Vic would’ve done a better job; at least he’d have put some spin on the gaff, colored it up with distracting noise. Hines’s pitch had the wide, flat feel of a curveball that didn’t break. Truly it had been doomed from the start. But I didn’t feel like busting his chops, for who holds an amateur to pro standards? So instead I said, “You did fine. I’m just hard to mark. Like that one said,” I hooked a thumb in Allie’s direction, “I’m the brightest bulb on the bush.” This seemed to satisfy Hines, and the bubble of silence formed around us again.
After a moment, Allie sauntered over, and when I say she sauntered, I mean she moved through space like she owned it, every bit of it, from the racks of vacuum-sealed coffee bags and Java Man T-shirts pinned up on the wall for sale all the way down to the atoms that comprised these things and the quarks and neutrinos that passed through them, and us, on their infinite voyage from wherever to fuckall.
To put it more prosaically, she had that look of someone holding all the cards.
She shivered theatrically. “It’s cold in here,” she said, though it was not, particularly. “Let’s go to your place.” A gesture with her cup, up and through the back wall of the Java Man, pointed roughly in the direction of my duplex.
This could have been a bluff. It was possible that she knew approximately, like to the nearest Java Man, where I lived, without actually knowing the street address. So I prevaricated. “My place is a mess,” I said. “The maid hasn’t come since …”
“The maid comes on Thursdays,” she said most matter-of-factly “She’s with a service, the Damsels of Dirt, and if she cleaned in the nude, I wouldn’t be surprised—perv—but in any case, she spends three hours at your place.” Allie fired out the address like pellets from a paint gun, “2323 Silver Sedge Road. From there she goes to Eagle Rock, to the condo of a day trader who, I know for a fact, has her clean in the nude.” She smiled at me sweetly. “Her name is Carmen. Strawberry margaritas loosen her lips.”
I closed my eyes, then opened them again. I could feel muons and leptons passing through my body. “It’s a bit of a climb,” I said at last.
“We don’t mind,” said Allie. “We’re fit.”
And fit they were. I took them the back way, the hard way, up a flight of steep, crumbly steps that ended about thirty feet below my back deck, and gave way there to a narrow path where it’s almost hands-and-knees time. You can get dirty; if you’re not careful, you can lose your footing and slide all the way downhill till the Dumpster behind the Java Man breaks your fall or, possibly, neck. But Allie took the ascent with the placid alacrity of an alpaca, not even breaking a sweat. Hines was less nimble but more stoic. I walked them around to the front of my place and let them in. It seemed weird, and not altogether comfortable, having guests in my home.
I’m a terrible host. Are you supposed to offer people drinks? Snacks? What? The sort of characters who come to my place—Mirplo, his low-rent friends, random other bit players in the grift—usually bring their own, and it’s usually Steel Reserve and pork rinds. In fact, looking at my joint through strangers’ eyes, I suddenly became quite self-conscious. Damsels of Dirt notwithstanding, the place was congenially unkempt, with books and magazines scattered about, naked CDs pining for their cases, and piles and piles of unopened mail. Dust motes dancing in the last red rays of sunset gave the very air a shabby feel. I pointed the pair to a couch and hoped nothing would crunch when they sat. Then, to regain some semblance of cool, I grabbed a chair from the dining table, flipped