"In fact," he went on after a couple of moments, "from my point of view it's worrisome. Experience tells me that lousy shots who commit negligent manslaughter have a tendency to repeat themselves. And recovering alcoholics don't have a very good track record in this business." By which he meant that sooner or later the pain got to them, and they started drinking again.

"This is a clean, professional organization, Brew," he explained patiently, like he wanted to be sure that I understood the problem from his perspective.

"Around here we dot our i's and cross our t's. We play by the rules, and our clients get honest work for an honest buck. We guarantee discretion we're serious about it." Just for a second he gave me a glimpse of steel.

"But the last time an investigator who was 'good with secrets' worked here, he ended up homeless.

"I'm willing to talk about this," he finished, "but you haven't given me much to talk about."

That sounded pretty final. Just because I was desperate didn't mean that he had to help me. In any case, I didn't think that I could stand working for a man who made me look like a pile of uncollected garbage.

"Never mind." I almost managed to stand up without wincing.

"I get the message. Sorry I wasted your time."

Putting on a show of dignity, I headed for the door.

He waited until I had my hand on the knob. Then he suggested casually, "Leave me a phone number, Brew. In case something changes."

I was primed to say, Fuck that. But before I got my mouth open, I remembered that I didn't know my way out of here. If he didn't escort me, I might never find the lobby again.

I might stumble around until I ran into Ginny.

That went way beyond acting like a fool. I still had enough sense to know that coming here put me on what you might politely call shaky moral ground.

Awkward as a marionette, I walked back to the desk, picked up a pencil, and scrawled my number on a scrap of paper. Then I stood there stiffly with nothing to do while I waited for him to get up and guide me out.

Glancing at the number, he started to his feet.

And stopped abruptly. Still only half upright, he took another look at what I'd written.

When he finished standing, I could tell by the look on his face that I'd made a mistake. He wasn't angry, but he was scrambling inside. I could almost see him chasing implications behind his mask of mild surprise.

"You didn't tell me," he remarked quietly, "you know Ginny Fistoulari."

I shrugged, mostly so that I wouldn't compound this foul-up by swearing at myself out loud. That damn woman hadn't told him anything about me.

Anything he could use, anyway.

Swallowing at the anger in my throat, I gave him as little as I could.

"She's the investigator I worked for after I lost my license."

With a sigh, he dropped back into his chair.

"Sit." The steel was back in his voice.

"Start over again. How long have you known her?"

I ignored him. Steel didn't scare me.

"I told you," I said carefully, "I already got the message. You didn't take me seriously when I walked in, and you still wouldn't if you hadn't made the connection. I do need a job. But if you change your attitude now, you're doing it for the wrong reasons.

"Get me back to the lobby, and you can forget we ever met."

Ginny hadn't told him anything about me. She hadn't so much as mentioned my name.

His stare didn't waver.

"Wait a minute." With one hand, he waved my indignation away.

"You said you wanted a job. You asked for help." His tone took on a flensing edge I hadn't heard him use before.

"You didn't tell me that my attitude mattered. You didn't tell me you're qualified to evaluate my state of mind.

"Put your damn crystal ball away, or your degree in psychoanalysis, or whatever the hell it is you think you're using, and sit down."

For a heartbeat or two, I couldn't move. I wanted to take a swing at him, but unfortunately the damn sonofabitch was right. I'd made about ten assumptions that I couldn't justify, and most of them involved thinking that I knew what went in his head. Which was what usually went wrong when I tried to talk to Ginny.

Hell, I didn't even know this guy.

I crumpled back into my chair and braced myself on its arms to ease the pain in my guts.

"Listen, Marshal." For a while I let the way I hurt do the talking.

"She's an old friend of yours. You've already given her a job. I may look like trouble, but I'm not trying to cause any." Not anymore.

"I came to you for help because I'm lost here. But I don't want to tell you anything she hasn't already mentioned." Stiffly I concluded, "She has her own reasons for doing what she does."

I didn't see him move a muscle, but somehow I could see his attitude shift again. He put his flensing knife away.

"OK," he said slowly, "fair enough. That explains some of the gaps."

He touched his hair quickly, checking the tousle, then went on, "But there's at least one I need filled in. If you don't do it, I'll have to get an answer out of her. That" he paused to look at me hard "might make your problems worse."

At least he was willing to be specific. That helped.

"Which gap?"

of you leave Puerta del

Sol? She doesn't want to talk about that." He glanced briefly out the window.

"I thought she was settled there."

No shit she didn't want to talk about it. She couldn't explain without telling her old boyfriend about me. And she'd made her desire to keep me out of the discussion obvious.

I suppose I should've kept my mouth shut. But I figured I had a right to answer that particular question. I was the one who got shot and couldn't go home.

Trying not to think about bullets, I asked, "You remember el Senor?"