I woke up feeling great ... and a little surprised at not feeling a hangover. Considering the evening before, I suspected that I deserved one.

Then I remembered the rest of the evening ...

Maybe it had been the residual adrenaline ... or the Chinese God who looks after fools and drunks ...

Or, just maybe, I considered, I was still drunk.

The house was quiet. I checked the time - barely six A.M.

I slipped out the patio door and found a comfortable place on the bluff to sit zazen, feeling a little guilty for yesterday evening.

Endangering my charges by leading them through a dangerous part of town ... margaritas were not an excuse. That no harm had come to them was not an excuse either.

Still, being angry at myself for the lapse - for being human - was not a part of the way. Drink was a lesson relearned ... but also one I would not study again. Not so immoderately. Lesson done, lesson learned, lesson put away.

I turned my mind to other matters.

My interest in discovering my past ... was that a sin - well, not sin exactly - but a weakness of pride? Did my past matter? I was I - which was all that any man could say. The past was gone, the future was not and only the present was now. Even in material terms, the only profit in seeking the past was to learn from it.

And yet a man can not divorce himself from his past. Mine had been ripped away.

Still, I felt no loss - only curiosity.

But, memory intruded, there was still a matter of murder. Mine - whoever I had been. That it was a death - a murder - in memory only didn't matter. What other deeds had the perpetrator done? And why? And what other deeds might he do if left unchecked.

Or what deeds might be done if I discovered to pursue him?

That was wrong, I reminded myself. I could not - should not - would not accept responsibility for the actions of another. I could only accept the responsibility for my own actions ... and non-actions. Not to seek to discover what had happened would be a non-action for which I would be responsible. Better to accept responsibility for actions which I could actively direct rather than by inaction accepting responsibility for those which I could not.

If all is truly maya - illusion - let us at least try to create the best maya possible.

As the shadows crept away from me, I rose and went inside, checking the cabinets in the kitchen for breakfast options.

A box of pancake mix bore a thin film of dust but was unopened. There were eggs in the fridge ... and milk and a half-pint of heavy cream as well as two baskets of strawberries. Another cupboard yielded a box of powdered sugar - also slightly dusty.

The aroma of coffee brought Dan and the Captain from their rooms. The batter was ready, the cream whipped and chilling in the fridge and the strawberries were sliced and sugared. "Sorry to wake you up," I offered, "but I have to get my clients to the airport early today and I didn't want these crepes to go to waste." I poured a thin layer of batter in the pan as I spoke.

"Crepes, laddie," the Captain objected, smiling. "Those paper thin French excuses for honest pancakes? Can't stand the things - only thing to do is eat them up and be done with them!"

"You didn't need to cook," Dan offered. "But, since you have ..."

"Don't forget," Dan reminded me as I readied to leave, "we're having dinner with George this evening."

"I'll be back," I assured him, "in plenty of time. When are we expected?"

"Around five," was the answer.

That would be no problem, I nodded. "I'll be back by two," I replied, walking out to join Leroy in the limo.

If Leroy thought anything of the condition of our return yesterday evening, he said nothing of it, greeting me pleasantly and only commenting on the weather - which, typically for a San Francisco morning, was partly cloudy and partly foggy.

Instead of driving directly to the hotel, Leroy and I detoured by way of a U-Haul to pick up boxes, tape and bubble-pack. Considering the amount of goods which the group had bought the day before - and Friday evening - they were going to need something besides their luggage to carry everything. I also bought a couple of pads of labels.

At the hotel, Kondo san greeted me as we'd parted the night before. "O-hayo gozai masu, Tambeau sensei. May we speak together for a moment?" He gestured an invitation for me to enter the suite.

"Put the boxes in the sitting room, please," I asked Leroy. "You have your cellular? Grab some coffee or something and I'll call you in a few minutes. Okay?"

Leroy smiled and nodded, closing the door behind him a moment later, leaving Kondo san and myself alone.

When Kondo san gestured toward a chair, I sat while he took the opposite seat.

Once we were both seated, Kondo san picked up the waiting teapot to pour a cup, placing it before me and returning the teapot to the tray.

It was my turn. I poured the second cup for Kondo san, then tasted mine, waiting for him to introduce the subject of conversation.

Kondo san began with a few generalities, then offered a description of his company and some remarks about their product and their plans for expansion.

Finally, Kondo san approached the heart of the matter. "If our plans are successful," he offered, "we will be in need of an American agent. One who not only knows our language but who also understands both cultures. This one would be very honored, Tambeau sensei, if you would consider acceptance of an offer to represent us here."

"This one is greatly honored," I replied. "But does not know if one would be suitable for the position. You will need a man with business experience to run such an operation."

"Business men can be hired," he dismissed my objections with a wave in front of his nose. "A man of understanding is not so easily found. This one asks only that such a possibility be given consideration."

"Your words shall be given every consideration," I agreed, feeling greatly overwhelmed - such an offer needed very careful consideration ... But, for the present, only an opening gambit had been offered and I had agreed only to think about it.

With Leroy's and my assistance, the various purchases were apportioned and packed, Kondo san's jazz clarinetist was the heaviest and also the most carefully wrapped.

Before the packages were sealed, I assisted in insuring that customs slips were filled out for each and asked Leroy to take the sales slips which I had cautioned each to keep downstairs to have photocopies made. One set of photocopies was placed inside each box while a second was placed in an envelope taped to the outside. The originals and a third set of copies were returned to the owners of the purchases.

Finally, we rang the bell captain to have boxes and luggage carried to the limousine.

Fortunately, Leroy and I had brought more boxes than were necessary.

The hotel charges were not the agency's responsibility and the charges for the limousine, boat ride, meals, etc would be billed later. While Shoji san settled with the hotel desk, each of the others made a polite bow to Leroy - which he returned - and each handed him a red envelope - which he accepted, expressed his thanks and pocketed unopened.

At the airport, sky caps accepted the array of boxes and baggage, affixing baggage tickets to each, stapling the stubs to the ticket envelopes, loading the assortment on caddies and whisking them away. It was a very smooth operation. Since Kondo san and party were traveling first class, there was no wait at the ticket counter and they were free to proceed immediately to the boarding lounge.

Which mean that my job was completed.

I wished them a safe journey, repeating my assurances to Kondo san that I would consider his words carefully.

"We are most grateful for your assistance, Tambeau sensei," Kondo san produced a package from his pocket, passing the red-wrapped article to me. "We shall remember San Francisco and you with great pleasure." He concluded with a bow, accompanied by his subordinates.

"I shall remember you all with great pleasure also," I replied sincerely, returning the bow. "May you fly safely."

As Kondo san bowed again, his subordinates exchanged glances, then quickly assumed the poses they had adopted the night before - Mori san becoming the sumo rock, Kishi san the Crane, Shoji san the Mantis and Ito san the kickboxer's stance. Breaking the poses, they bowed again, even more deeply.

"Travel well, my samurai," I bowed to hide a laugh, then watched them queue to pass the metal detectors. Lacking a ticket - and passport - I would not be welcomed to follow.

For some reason, that thought was very sad.

The red-wrapped package was still in my hand when I joined Leroy in the limo.

"Home?" he asked.

"That's fine," I agreed. "The paperwork can wait until tomorrow."

"You going to open the package?" he hinted. "Or are you keeping it for Christmas?"

"Open it, I guess," I suited action to the words.

With the wrapping removed, I discovered a plain white box. Inside, the first thing visible was a stack of color prints ... photos of my five samurai posing in mock attack ... and one print showing the six homeboys ... from Ito san's electronic camera. Without a flash, I was surprised by the quality and clarity of the image - if this was a sample, it looked like they had something very impressive. I also wondered - just for a moment - how they had managed to get a print made overnight ... from the electronic camera, than is.

They must have, I decided, had the necessary equipment with them - probably for demonstration purposes.

I passed the photos to Leroy, then had to add an explanation of the night's events, feeling my face trying to redden with embarrassment as I recounted the matter.

"You are one bad dude," Leroy laughed, passing the photos back and pulling out into traffic. "And I bet they loved it."

"Oh, they did," I assured him. It had been the primary - and virtually only - topic of conversation over drinks afterwards.

While Leroy negotiated the 380 and 280 freeways toward Daly City, I looked further in the box to find five red envelopes, each with a small ribbon through a hole in one corner and each ribbon attached to a folded piece of paper - origami. One tassel was folded in the shape of a sword, another was a crane, one a mantis shape, one represented a fist and the last was a cunningly mounded rock.

Since I couldn't imagine where or how such paper figures could have been purchased, I could only assume that one of the five - since surely all five were not so skilled in the art - had created these that morning. Signature pieces.

I was impressed.

And very pleased.

As well as honored.

I didn't check the contents of the envelopes until after Leroy had dropped me at Dan's. The amounts in each differed - according to status ... or income, I presumed - but the total was generous. Easily more than I was being paid for the three day's work.

Leroy was right about the Japanese being generous.

I counted out two hundred to repay Dan, then added another hundred for rent before folding the rest and tucking it in my wallet. If the denominations had been smaller, it wouldn't have fitted. As it was, the wallet was uncomfortably fat.

I was definitely going to have to open a bank account. Plastic - ATM cards - were much easier to carry.

The envelopes and five pieces of origami I left in the box along with the photos, tucking the box in my briefcase and carrying it into the living room. The briefcase also contained a stack of receipts that I needed to total.

I was grinning when I handed the folded bills to Dan, saying nothing.

He glanced at them, then counted quickly, then looked back at me. "Too much," he said, peeling off on of the hundreds and handing it back.

"Rent," I explained. "A cheap apartment runs at least that much a week."

"No way," Dan frowned. "I'd rather have a friend than a tenant. You can buy lunch tomorrow."

I didn't argue - he meant it. But I'd felt like I should offer. "Okay," I agreed. "Lunch is on me. And, as soon as your stomach's up to, I've found a lovely Mexican restaurant."

"It'll have to wait a while," Dan smiled again. "But, once the doc gives her okay, you're on. Had lunch yet?"

Actually, I hadn't. With a minimum of urging, I dug the remaining ham out of the fridge and created a sandwich before settling in the living room. I had a lot of receipts to enter - using a spreadsheet on the computer was a lot easier than filling out an expense report.

Captain Donavi had laid claim to the other half of the table, using a spread blanket to protect the table and a shallow cardboard carton to hold his parts. "How is it?" I asked.

"Going nicely," he reported. "But no hurry, eh?"

"Guess not." I switched the computer on with my freehand - one was busy with the sandwich - and waited for the screen to come up. I hadn't checked my email in a couple of days and I was curious.

There were no more incorrect delivery messages ... but there was one message:

Subject: RE: Identification

From: jborne@CMU.TPP.EDU.TW (John Borne)

To: Alexander Tambeau

Sir,

In response to your inquiry and the attached URL, I believe

the person depicted is familiar. If you would care to acquaint

me with the nature of your inquiry, I will consider providing

further information. If this is important, you may reach me

Monday at ...

An international country and province code and phone number followed, together with hours when a call would be appropriate. The times were given in Zulu or Greenwich Mean Time.

I called up an international clock and did some conversions - the message had originated at the American Embassy in Bangkok - any time after eight PM local - 0400 GMT - would be ten AM on Monday in Thailand.

I left the sandwich lying on the plate, trying to decide ... just how important was it. Certainly it could wait until evening ... but ... the same dilemma - did really I want to know? And how badly?

"Alex? You okay, mate?" Captain Donavi was bending over, one hand on the table supporting him, the other on my shoulder, a look of concern on his face.

Dan was standing next to him, also concerned.

"Fine," I managed. "Just ... a shock, I guess." I pointed at the message displayed on the screen.

"Damn," Dan breathed softly.

"Shouldn't have waited," the Captain suggested, sympatheticly.

"What are you talking about," I asked, distracted from my own concerns by obvious dismay in Dan's voice.

Dan and the Captain exchanged glances. "Your story," the Captain counseled.

Dan pulled up a chair, motioning for the Captain to sit also. "I think I know who you are," he spoke. "I was hoping to have a surprise for you. Tomorrow."

"And a damned good piece of detective work, too," Captain Donavi interjected.

"But now you've found your own answer," Dan continued. "Hell, I'm sorry. I should be happy for you. I ... I was just disappointed. I'd been looking forward to ..."

I raised a hand to stop him. "It's your surprise," I suggested. "We'll wait. This can wait." I used the mouse to shut down the email program. Actually, I was rather relieved. I needed a minute - or more - to get used to the idea. "Let me tell you about a mugging ..." But I started with the frightener on Fisherman's Wharf.

When I concluded, it was one story even the Captain couldn't top ... and didn't try. He looked at the pictures of my five business-suited samurai again, looked at me ... and howled with laughter. "Now, mate," he suggested when he'd caught his breath again, "I can almost believe Dan's account of El Gallo Rojo."

"Except," Dan gasped for air as well, "this one must be true. It's the only logical answer - because nobody could dream that up."

Originally, I hadn't intended to tell the story. Mostly because I still felt responsible for letting it happen in the first place.

Now, I was glad I had. Dan was grinning like a devil, the subject of his surprise was off the table - as much as it could be anyway - and the Captain was obviously pleased with - and proud of - Dan's accomplishment. As for me, I could wait.

And knowing Dan had a secret explained a few of the remarks - and partial conversations - I'd overheard in the past few days.

"Okay, you baboons," I growled, turning back to the computer and my sandwich. "I've got a ton of paperwork to handle and turn in tomorrow. How about letting me finish the job. Eh?"

The paperwork actually didn't take very long. After entering the figures and making one printed copy and one disk copy, I walked back out to the bluff where I could sit and meditate.

Just the fact that Dan thought he knew who I had been and that he was keeping it for a secret surprise was strong reassurance in itself. Obviously, there wouldn't be any police showing up to clap me in irons for some crime I couldn't even remember.

At the same time, it didn't sound like he'd located a tearful wife - not if he and whoever else was involved were willing to wait for several days. That in itself was reassuring - I wanted to know but ... what would I do with a family I couldn't remember ... all the more so since the person who they would be expecting was dead in every sense that mattered.

In many ways, being dead was awfully complicated. Or was it being reborn which was complicated? Mai pen rhy, I told myself. The difference didn't matter.

And then there was Kondo san's offer.

What I would do about that I wasn't sure. Partly it would depend on what I found out tomorrow. Partly - it was a very generous offer ... but I wasn't sure I wanted it. I wasn't really sure what I did want. But that could wait.

I let the waves below rise and carry off my worries and sent my mind playing with the clouds overhead while the warm sun caressed my back and shoulders and the salt spray wrapped me in comforting aromas. Alone, I was as free as the gulls riding the thermals off the beach. And yet I was no more alone than the bees playing with the blossoms. All was maya ... and all was connected - a dream of a restless Buddha.

Before satori, the proverb said, a mountain is only a mountain and the sea is only the sea. On achieving satori, the mountain is no longer a mountain, the sea is no longer the sea. But, after achieving satori - shin te shin, shoy te shoy - the mountain is only a mountain again and the sea is only the sea.

I looked down from the cloud tops, watching the waves roll in to the shore. But the sea was only the sea.

"Alex, laddie," the Captain boomed softly over my shoulder. "We're due at George's for dinner. Are you coming?"

"Coming," I agreed, stretching. "Just give me a minute to change." I was still wearing one of the conservative shirts but, in all courtesy, I'd attend the party in something more casual ... with more 'flash'.

George's place was a sprawling ranch-style ... finished entirely in stone. The house itself was located in an older residential district but one which was being revived rather than deteriorating. Further down the block, one home was being extensively rebuilt while others showed signs of recent renovation. All were well tended and several swimming pools were evident in side and back yards.

George's home was not the most expensive in the area ... but it was comfortable. Inside, the decor was more aimed at comfort than a particular style. A comfortable couch was the focus of the living room - opposite a large, stone fireplace - and was flanked by several comfortable chairs but no effort had been made to match the upholstery of the several pieces. Likewise, the mantelpiece over the fireplace held family pictures rather than elaborate decorative pieces. The coffee table - a slab of marble - held magazines, the bookcases were filled with a mixture of polished geodes and crystals as well as mixed books. Overall, it was a room for living, not a room for creating an artificial impression.

Typical of California, broad glass doors looked out on the back yard where, behind the house, more stone provided an equally sprawling patio, a huge outdoor fireplace and grill, walkways through vegetable and flower beds and coping around spreading trees. More stone - polished marble slabs, granite blocks, rough sandstones and hard dark shales - provided benches and seats along the walkways.

"Wonderful what you can do with a little stone," George took in the expanse with a wave of his arm, then added with a grin, "Especially when you can't unload it on someone else."

"He always says that," Anne-Marie confided. "But he just keeps bringing it home."

"And who picked out the fossil sandstone?" George gestured at a half-polished slab filled with boney outlines from another aeon.

"Now that was different, dear," Anne-Marie squeezed her husband's arm. Obviously it was an argument without heat that had been played many times before. "You'd better fire up the grill if we're going to eat anytime today." A soft chime came from the house. "I'll get the door," she continued. "You light the charcoal."

"It takes ten or fifteen minutes for a hot bed of coals," George complained softly. "But she always acts like it takes forever. Come on, gents, we'd better do as she says."

We 'assisted' - such as it was - since the total task consisted of laying a sack of charcoal under the grill and lighting the corner.

As the flame spread slowly across the paper wrappings, George Junior appeared with a pitcher of pineapple margaritas - the California perennial.

George Junior was the image of his father ... except for being a few pounds lighter, twenty years younger and with more hair. On the other hand, George was a few pounds lighter, too. Just that the hospital hadn't done anything for his hair ... or his age.

As for the margaritas, after last night, I decided that one would be okay - but more would be tempting the fates - and resolved to switch to iced tea for my second.

"George," Anne-Marie called from the house, "Lucille's here." She led another lady on to the patio.

The new arrival might have been Anne-Marie's younger sister - the same lovely cheekbones, the same soft complexion, gently-curved figure and grace of movement. She was wearing a summery, flowered pants suit and sensible sandals, needing nothing to enhance her height or posture.

Lucille d'Avro was introduced first to Captain Donvai - "Please, call me Mikael," the Captain insisted - then to Dan who accepted her hand with pleasure.

"And this," George turned to me, "is Alexander Jason Tambeau."

I extended my hand, taking hers gently. Ms d'Avro was a very attractive woman and I was finding that my libido had not died after all.

But as our hands touched, Lucille paled like cream poured in cafe-a-lait. "Baron Samdi," she breathed, her eyes rolling up to show only whites as she fainted in a heap on the stone, sending the Captain sprawling as well when he dropped his crutches attempting to catch her.

It was Dan who prevented her total collapse, managing to cradle her head before it struck the flagstone - that and the fact that I was still holding her hand.

Her pulse was ragged - racing - and her skin was too cool to the touch while her breathing was rapid and shallow. "Inside," I ordered, directing Dan to the opposite side where we could form a cradle with our arms to carry her. "Could you get a blanket, George?" - Anne-Marie was already moving to open the door.

By the time Dan and I had her resting on the couch and George was spreading a blanket, Lucille's eyes were fluttering and her pulse was improving. I rubbed one hand and wrist, Dan copying me with the other, to help restore circulation.

"So ... so sorry," she apologized weakly. "It ... I thought," she opened her eyes wide, looking directly at me. "I thought you were ... Baron Samdi. You ... your aura ..." She forced herself upright, still looking paler than she should, and placed her hands on my temples. "You ... were dead. You are alive but you were dead. Not zombie but Samdi held you in his realm. I'm sorry," she apologized again. "It was the shock. But you ... you are alive ... you are well ... how is this?" Her voice was growing stronger and the color returning rapidly.

I said nothing. Her touch was electrifying. But what she was saying was even more electrifying.

"You walked the lands beyond," she continued. "You have walked with the dead. How does this happen? You're life is so short. Only days. Like a child new borne but grown. You were killed and you live." She shook her head softly, never breaking eye contact. "Five? No, nine days. You are well? How do you feel?" She moved her hands to my shoulders, then down my arms, reaching for my hands and taking both in hers. "Your strength is good," it was a statement, not a question. "You have much peace within but ... you are so young ... but so old. Yes," she was addressing herself, "he lives. His loa is well, it holds and grows but it is so young. How is this happens? Baron Samdi, this one is not yours," she was speaking to someone - or something - not present. Not in the usual sense.

"I am so sorry," she dropped my hands. "You are well. Your loa is whole. It was only the shock. I thought ... Excuse me, please. Anne-Marie," she reached up a hand. "Please forgive me. If I could freshen up ..?"

Anne-Marie helped Lucille rise, leading her by the arm to another part of the house.

"I'm sorry," George apologized. "I ... I wasn't expecting anything like this. Uh, why don't we go back to the patio. I think I'd like a margarita."

Now there was a notion I could sympathize with. But I had a couple of questions as well. "Had you," I grabbed George by the arm, pulling our heads together and keeping my voice low, "told Lucille anything about me? Or had Anne-Marie or George Jr or Keri?"

"I hadn't even told her you'd be here," George's voice was as puzzled as mine. "And I haven't told Anne-Marie or anyone anything to tell Lucille. I just called her this morning - on impulse - thinking you'd enjoy meeting her. I haven't even talked to her since before I went in the hospital. How much of what she said did you understand?"

"Enough," I confided, "to scare the hell out of me. What is she? A psychic?"

"Lucille is a mam'bo - a mama loa," George responded. "She's an old friend as well and ... I wasn't expecting this."

"This," I took a guess, "is what you were saying about Father Hardesty not being sympathetic to what he didn't understand?"

"Sort of," George poured a round from the pitcher, handing me the first and then supplying Dan, the Captain and George Jr. before taking his own. "The Voodun church - you are familiar with it?"

Dan shook his head, the Captain nodded, I blinked, uncertain before answering, "African origin via the Caribbean, blended with Catholic Christianity?"

"That's right," George agreed. "It was a slave religion when my ancestors were brought from Africa. And it's still most popular in the Caribbean. But a lot of voodun are also Catholic - most really. In Haiti, they say that the population is 10% Baptist, 90% Catholic and 100% Voodun. Elsewhere, not as popular. Anne-Marie was Catholic/Voodun when we married. Me, I was raised Catholic but I've seen so much of voodoo that ... that I really can't say that I disbelieve. But I wasn't expecting this. I just thought that you'd enjoy meeting. I was ..." he drained his margarita and poured another.

I felt like doing the same but restrained myself.

"Gentlemen," Lucille's voice interrupted our silence. "Is there a glass for me?"

"Absolutely," I jumped into the void, filling two fresh glasses and offering one to Lucille and the other to Anne-Marie. "Are you feeling better now?"

"I'm fine, thank you," she smiled. "I don't know what came over me," her free hand touched my cheek lightly ... not flirting or anything - more like she needed to touch to assure herself that I was real and not a spirit of some sort. Even so, her touch was like warm fire. "I'm so sorry to disrupt things like that," she continued. "It was ... a shock."

"I'm sorry to cause you discomfort," I apologized.

"Hi," a new voice interrupted. "Hey, Alex, you look really fine." It was Keri with a tall young man in tow - Jerome, I assumed, whose clothes I had inherited. Jerome was probably six-three and around 175 - good bone structure, no fat, long face accentuated by a shaved head. I wondered what he used to bring out the mahogany high-lights. He was dressed in a short-sleeved lime-green silk shirt over dark green slacks. His well-polished loafers matched the high-lights off his sweeping forehead.

"Hey, you must be Alexander," the tall black man grinned. "Jerome Miller," he extended his hand. "I like the hat. Maybe ..."

"Forget it, hon," Keri interrupted, reaching up to run an affectionate hand over his brush-cut. "On Alex, yes. On you, they'd run you in for pimping. Come on, you've got to meet Captain Donavi and ..."

Real barbecue is a regional cuisine, usually involving special brick ovens and requiring sixteen to twenty hours of slow cooking ... and best enjoyed in the central southwest states like Texas, New Mexico or Arizona where they take barbecue as seriously as the French take paté. (Barbecue's better - healthier too.)

Back-yard barbecue is a different matter ... but George treated his as seriously as any chef-du-cuisine, keeping the coals well spread and not too hot while he basted the racked ribs with a smooth sauce redolent of tamarind and limes.

"This is a very mild sauce," he assured Dan. "Nothing to inflame an ulcer. Learned it from Anne-Marie's father ... said it was part of her dowry."

If it tasted as good as it smelled, then Anne-Marie had brought an excellent dowry.

"... simply a matter of deduction," Dan was explaining to Jerome and Lucille, ticking off points on his fingers. "The police can't find Alex's fingerprints on file anywhere." - that was one - "but, rather obviously, he's traveled widely," - two - "speaks multiple languages fluently," - three - "gets along in strange cultural situations" - four - "which means he must have had a passport. And, to get a passport, they take your fingerprints, Right?

"Also," Dan continued, "Alex consorts with underworld figures like long-lost friends." - and that was the thumb, number five - "So, what does that leave? Since I don't figure he's in the habit of crossing all borders illegally - only some - he's got to belong to some super-secret intelligence agency who've blocked access to his records. Q.E.D!"

"Sounds almost too reasonable," Jerome considered the arguments. "But you haven't covered all the bases - suppose he was a Russian spy? The FBI wouldn't necessarily have his prints then - not if he was any good."

That was a point to think on ... except that my Russian was limited to a few courtesy phrases ... and a few curses. It was reason enough to think that the idea was pretty unlikely - a Russian spy, no matter how good his English might be, would surely still speak fluent Russian ... or some Slavic language, anyway.

Of course, that didn't rule out India, Thailand, Japan, Spain or Mexico ... except that none of these nations were noted for their espionage apparats.

"What's the joke," George asked, turning and basting the chicken halves. The ribs were ready and so was my appetite.

"Just a weird thought," I answered, ignoring Dan's specious arguments. "What with the collapse of the Soviet Union, where do you find a setting for spy thrillers today? Maybe that's why there are so many terrorist plots in novels recently. Never mind - it's not worth thinking about. You were talking about quarrying down in Santa Cruz?" I redirected our conversation to it's previous thread, leaving it to Jerome to dispute my improbable identity with Dan.

Anne-Marie's dowry was delicious, the lime margaritas were smooth and the company - particularly Lucille - was entertaining. All in all, it was a wonderful day - one I was reluctant to see end. But, tomorrow, Dan had a surprise planned ... and it had been a long day as well