“It’s someone I know,” I said, loud enough to be heard this time. “I didn’t know she ever came here.”

Theo looked over at the monitor, where Sher was now making some shrugging, inquiring motion. “Oh, Sherrea,” he said, nodding. “Groovy. Take the mix, and I’ll send her up. I need a break.”

And he left, while I was still trying to ask how he knew her, and trying to figure out why I was surprised that he did.

One person can handle all the hardware on the balcony; you just can’t do as much, and it’s not as much fun. I cued up the next song: “They Want My Four-Wheel Drive,” by Los Blues Guys, copy of tape courtesy of my archives. I’d gotten the original from someone who’d brought it from northern Texas, who knew the recording engineer and half the band members. A fine example of the new record distribution system.

Much of the material at the Underbridge was of my providing. It was another thing I weighed on the scales of the Deal: Robert provided the opportunity and a cut of the door, and I repaid him with fresh antique marvels for the customers. Besides, like most collectors, I couldn’t quite keep it all to myself. I needed some appreciative audience to ooh and ahh over the gems.

I was showing the car chase from The French Connection when Sherrea came up. It had taken her too long, and I wondered if Theo had waylaid her and mentioned my personal problems. Joke on Theo — she had the advantage of him on a few points.

“ ’Lo,” she said. “You want me to take audio or video?”

“You know how to run these?” I asked. I had assumed she was a technophobe; most adivinos were. Or at least, I thought they were.

“Santos,” she sighed. I’d never heard anyone sigh that loud before. “You hardware heads all think you need lessons from God to do this. Next time your significator’s gonna be the High Priestess. Audio or video?”

“Video,” I said weakly. “Theo’s had the tunes all night.”

She slid into the chair in front of the A/B switcher, pulled her headwrap off in a heap, and began rummaging for tapes. I began to think of the 27 Various, Reptile Zoo, and pre-detox Lilly Guilder. Or — what kind of music did Sherrea like, anyway? The candlelight caught the embroidery on her rusty-black denim jacket: silks, beads, and metallic thread in Celtic knots, runes, warding symbols. They didn’t seem to have worked against the weather; her shoulders were damp. “How’s the storm?” I asked.

“Just rain, but a helluva lot of it. Theo says somebody’s after you for something.”

Good guess, me. “Did he say that? Not exactly. It’s nothing serious.”

She popped a tape into the B deck and turned to me. “Sure. Robby says you showed up white as a bar of soap and looking like you slept in your clothes. Nothing serious.”

Well, I had slept in my clothes. I noticed, too, that she called him Robby. I felt as if I were looking in the window of some place I used to live in. “Spangler dropped a wrench,” I said.