Possession

It was the only nice thing he owned, a relic from the past.

Had owned, that was.

Whatever. He’d lost more than that along the way, and he was still upright and walking.

“I gotta leave a little before ten,” he told Ivan. “But I’ll flipside in thirty minutes.”

“That’s what Big Rob said. I think he’s going to cover.”

“Cool.”

Back at the hair salon, Cait knocked on the glass door and leaned in, trying to tea-leaf whether Pablo was still inside. The lights had been dimmed, which was not a good sign, but come on, it had taken her less than five minutes to—

The stylist walked out from the rear, in the process of pulling a black jacket on. “Vev closed,” he called out.

“I know,” she shouted back, her breath condensing on the glass. “I lost my earring? I just want to check the dressing room floor?”

She tugged at her earlobe, like that would help in translation.

Pablo was a little huffy as he unlocked things and let her in. “Lovt und fond behd desk?”

“I think it’s probably in there.” She pointed to the hallway.

“Wen yoo in here?”

Cait frowned. “I’m sorry?”

He waved his hand with impatience. “Yoo go thur. I get out box.”

Wow, she thought as he turned away. Maybe he had short-term amnesia from all the peroxide in the hair color? Too much aerosol from the sprays? Mousse-induced dementia?

Cait went back to where she’d done her disrobing and got down on her knees, patting under the built-in bench, looking around on the carpet. She even pulled her sweater out at the neck to see if the shell had gotten stuck in the weave.

“Damn it…”

Heading back out, she went over to Pablo, who was clearly tapping his boots to go home. The “lovt und fond” was in fact a Stuart Weitzman shoe box, and in it there were two pairs of sunglasses, a stringy scarf, a couple of chunky, fake-gold necklaces, and…

A hoop earring that was big enough to double as a choker.

No dainty seashells. But she hadn’t really expected it to be there—Pablo didn’t seem like the type to rock a vacuum around his business before he left for the night.

“Okay, thanks,” she said. “It’s a little seashell, a gold shell?”

“Do ve haf number for oo?”

“Ah … your assistant called it yesterday to confirm my appointment with you?”

He seemed confused. “Vell, wee call if fond.”

“Thanks.”

Outside, she shook her head. Weird, weird, weird. But lost accessory be damned—the guy did great hair, and that’s what she was paying him for.

He must have one really short Christmas list, though.

Back in her Lexus, she gave the whole head-to-Old Caldwell thing another go, and about fifteen minutes later, she made it to the part of town where an entire twelve-block section of multicolored Victorian mansions had been turned into condo associations, cafes and shops—although the latter were nothing like where she’d just been. Here they were folk-art galleries, organic spice sellers, hemp clothiers, that kind of thing.

“Four seventy-two … four seventy-two … where are you…?”

Seemed like this was the theme for the night, her out in the dark, searching for—

“Got it,” she said as she hit the directional signal.

The cafe was called the Black Crow, but its exterior was all about the friendly: the gabled details, the overhang above the door, and the curlicues under the eaves were painted pink and yellow and pale blue. Matter of fact, the facade looked like a cartoon face, its two plate-glass windows like oversize eyes, with the rafters as the brows and the slate roof like a bowl haircut.

Following the arrows around behind, she rode out the potholes in the dirt lane between buildings and parked in the shallow lot.

Grabbing her bag, she got out—

Over by a door marked “Staff Only,” a man was getting off a vintage motorcycle … and as he removed his helmet, long dark hair swung free across a broad back. His leather jacket was beaten up, but it seemed weathered from age, not some kind of designer distressing stuff, and his long legs were covered with the sort of jeans that were very un-Victoria Beckam.

With a smooth movement, he bent down and took something from the back of the bike—a guitar case?

She couldn’t see the front of him because he was facing away from her, but the way he strode into the back of the cafe would have made her notice him even more than that dark rush of hair: He moved with total confidence. Maybe he was an owner? Or … the talent, given that case?

Whatever his role, he was in charge.

As that door clamped shut behind him, Cait shook herself, feeling strange that she’d just eyeballed some man. Then again, maybe the blond had gone to her head?

Har-har, hardy har-har.

Shaking herself back to reality, she walked around to the cafe’s front entrance and pulled open the door.

In a rush of air, she got hit with a hot blast of coffee, vanilla and patchouli—like a latte had been splashed in her face by a member of the Grateful Dead. Rubbing her finicky nose, she eyed the thick crowd and wondered how she was going to find anyone in the place: the cafe was long and thin as a cattle chute, with a bar that ran down one side, little tables lined up along the opposite wall, and about two hundred people squeezed between the two.

At least she was in the right place to hear music, though. At the far end, there was a raised stage big enough for a quartet, and all around the exposed brick walls, folk instruments hanging from wires alternated with fairly serious-looking speakers—

“Cait! Over here!” came a holler from down in front.

“Hey!” With a wave, she started to work her way toward the stage, squeezing between vertical waiters in sherbet-colored T-shirts, and seated patrons who struck her as disproportionately female.

“What the hell did you do to your hair?” Teresa Goldman said as she got to her feet for a hug.

Teresa had been a good friend in high school and a great roommate in college, the kind of girl who could be depended upon to give you a straight answer whether you needed it or not. In short, she was awesome—and a little frightening.

Especially when you’d gone from blond to brunette without any warning.

“Is it awful?” Cait fussed with her bangs. “Is it—”

“Fuck, no! It’s fantastic! Are you kidding me? And, Christ, have you lost more weight?”

Cait shuffled into a wooden chair that squeaked. “I haven’t lost any, I swear.”

“Bullshit.”

“Does your mother know you talk like that?”

“Who do you think taught me to curse?”

As they went through the back-and-forth they’d coined in their freshman year, a server brought Cait a menu printed on cardboard.

Cait stopped laughing as she looked things over. “Wait a minute—what’s all this stuff? Kombucha? Tulsi? Yerba mate?”

“You are so behind the times—”

“These people ever heard of Salada?”

“What a plebe—”

“No Earl Grey—?”