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“Please, call me Sam. May I call you Jack?”
    â€œYeah.” Yes, this is what I want as well as you. I wondered if it showed there, on my face, and then I decided I didn’t care.
    â€œYou were so kind to me when I came in here that I decided to return.” He reached into the pocket of his suit. “I have been away for a while, visiting my country, and I puzzled over what would be an appropriate present. Are you familiar with the Egyptian cartouche, Jack?”
    â€œYeah, I’ve heard something about it. They used to draw these circle things around kings’ names—so people would know who they were, right?”
    â€œQuite correct. It is also considered by my people to be a symbol of eternity.” He handed me a small velvet pouch. “There. I give you a cartouche of your own, Jack.”
    I opened the bag and tipped the contents out into my hand. The small, lozenge-shaped ornament gleamed with its own inner fire: real gold, of a very high carat value, unmistakably luxurious. “Sam, this is too much. I only gave you directions—”
    â€œIt is inappropriate to refuse a gift.” He cleared his throat in an ostentatious manner, but he was trying hard not to smile. “Please, take it. Those hieroglyphs spell out your name, you know.”
    â€œThank you.” I was overcome.
    He rose and folded his coat over his arm. “And now I must go. Here—” He handed me a small card. “Call me sometime this week, if you like. I should very much like to see this town. Are you up to playing guide?” His eyelashes were ridiculously long, fanning out from those huge, gentle brown eyes. The curve of his mouth under his tightly groomed moustache was beautiful. He smelled like pine and citrus and sunshine.
    I felt like a goddamn schoolboy in his presence. “Uh, sure. Yeah, I’d like that, Sam.”
    He bowed slightly. “It is time I made my afternoon prayers. Good-bye.”
    I watched him go, and I was back there with him, sailing on the Nile.
    Yes, this is what I want , I thought, as well as you.

Chapter 5

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    I DID nothing for the next few days except wait while the local underground did its work. I knew if I was patient, eventually word of Picco’s whereabouts would filter back to me. I only hoped it wouldn’t take too long. I might have plenty of time, but Alphonsus Picco didn’t.
    It was a sultry Wednesday in mid-July, and I had just opened the Heartache for the day. I poured myself a soda with lots of ice and went to sit at a back table where I could keep an eye on the door while I did some paperwork. I could have just as easily stayed in my office, but from this vantage point, I could see not only the entire cafe, but also anyone who might be loitering on the sidewalk, trying to work up the nerve to come inside.
    Chris was behind the bar, taking a quick count of the liquor bottles for me. We’d had an unusually thirsty group of customers the day before, and some of our supplies were running low. I told Chris to let me know if we needed anything and I’d go down in the basement to fetch it.
    Just then he called to me from across the room. “I think we might be running low on bourbon, Jack.”
    â€œOkay.” I laid my glass down for a paperweight and went downstairs. The basement was reached by a set of narrow stairs to the rear of the cafe. It was a damp underground space dimly lit by one light bulb dangling from a cord in the ceiling. I’m not a guy that takes fright easily but that damn basement gave me the creeps. Maybe it was the layout of the place, thin and narrow like the rest of the Cafe, the thick walls set around with whitewashed local stone. There was always a weird smell down there, not the usual sort of thing, but something acrid and faintly sweet, like medicine. It reminded me of Judy. It reminded me of that horrible dark alley, and the little room….
    She was still alive, that day