Spunk took the glitter, turned it this way and that in the light, then passed it back, draped on the overgrown hook of his thumbnail. “Goes direct to Rousseau when ya git in.”

“Really? Come on . . . you’re saying it’s real?”

“Mebbe. ’Course I’m no expert. But da tellers ain’t neither. You take it straight to da boss. He’ll know.” He poked at it while I stood holding it, a coil of sparkle in my half-clenched fist. “Funny t’ing ta leave behine.”

“Probably fell off her wrist. Must be that girl’s so rich, she didn’t miss it.”

“Mebbe. Whadya say ta pretty boy?”

“Pretty?” I could only sputter. But of course, he was.

He turned away with another cackle, then let it die into silence, gazing up at the misted spires like he’d never seen them before. “Worried I was gonna glom it, right?”

“That’d be okay.” I held it out to him again. “You want to take it in?”

Spunk sucked his teeth. “Tem’ting me, are ya?”

“What? Why would I?”

“Good question.”

“I wouldn’t!” He was moving way too fast for me. After all the months of dark nights and close calls on the street with this man, I should be feeling way more comfortable than I was right then. “Like, you could see it as payback, for the extra work you put in on me.”

“Dat’s my job.”

“Yeah, but . . .”

“Nah, it’s yer pick.”

“What’s up, Spunk?” I hated that I could never quite tell what he was thinking. Had he been talking to Peeto?

“Nuttin’.” He glanced back at me, then shook his head and shoved off from the windowsill. “Nuttin’ at all.”

I didn’t believe him. I waited for him to ask what else was in my bag. “You saw it all go down. Did I play it wrong?”

“Not so far.” He retreated backward along the corridor. “On about yer bizness, Glimmagirl.” He pointed at the bracelet, still lighting up my palm. “Keep dat tight, now.”

“Of course.” I dropped it back in my bag.

“Catch ya back at Joe.”

“You bet.” I let him get down the hall till I could barely see him. “Spunk?”

“Yeah?”

“I got scared back there.”

“Sure ya did.”

“No, really scared. Crazy scared. Almost lost it. Like I used to.”

Silence, while both of us recalled the time he’d had to slug me quiet to save our skins on the street. “But ya din’t.”

“No, but . . .”

“Ya snarled ’im down.”

“Well, no, it was . . .” Maybe he hadn’t heard the summons from inside the boat.

“Sure ya did. Or ya guiled ’im. Whatevah. It worked. Ya walked away.” He was moving again, his voice fading, melting back into the night.

“It was like . . . an almost memory. Something I . . .”