Gaetano Longo stood at the base of the mountain that was my home. He was a bearish man, big and seemingly lumbering. Seemingly. I’d seen him move quick enough to catch a dancing rooster with just one grab.

“Signor Rawlins,” he said in a rumbling voice that sat on top of a growl. “It was too cold and so she stayed in the car. Feather doesn’t come.”

“She’s with her godparents.”

The Sicilian grunted and gave me a nod. He didn’t want Feather to be in trouble and he didn’t want me to bring wanton women home when the child might see or hear.

Asiette was sleeping under a blanket behind the wheel of her indigo Citroën. When I knocked on the window she opened her Liz Taylor eyes. She emerged still wrapped in the blanket. Then she opened the cloak, showing me that she wasn’t wearing anything other than a smile.

In the house she dropped the cover and pulled me to her. She looked at me with intensity and said, “I am so sorry, Easy.” Then she kissed me.

“For what?” My throat was a little constricted by the osculation.

“I was trying to make you jealous with Stefano.”

I lifted her in my arms, kissed lips and neck, shoulders and breasts.

We didn’t make it upstairs. There was a large sofa near the verandah and the koi pool. After her next campaign of kisses I tried to return the favor but was too weak to go on. She rose up over me, kissed both eyes, and said, “Dors, ma cher. I will wake you in the morning.”

But I awoke first. Lifting the blanket she brought along I looked at her body. She was a strong woman, slender but solid. Her skin was the color of cream with a few drops of vanilla extract blended in.

Asiette Moulon taught me new ways to see the world when I had thought I’d seen it all. But she was too young despite this gift of wisdom.

“Easy,” she said. “Do you want to kiss her now?”

18

18

Later in the morning I saw Asiette down to her French car and kissed her lightly on the lips.

“Do you forgive me?” she asked.

“Ain’t nuthin’ to forgive,” I said, reaching down into the roots of my language. “Man like me got to be ready when the woman is.”

“I love you,” she said. I don’t think she’d ever said those words before—at least not to me.

“And I you. More than you know.”

I took that bittersweet moment to drive down to the third address Craig Kilian had given me. It was an apartment house off East Olympic that had once been a mansion. There was an immense dark-needle pine tree growing in the yard and a porch that completely surrounded the front and sides of the four-story structure.