Finally, I decided on the most conservative outfit I could have put together: a pair of black slacks and a blue button-down shirt. If only I could have taken Amy Langtree on a date in the Brain Hotel, I could have invented any suit to wear, taken her to any fancy restaurant I dreamed of… But no. This had to be real. Times like these, I didn't envy Paul one bit.

In the real world, I needed money to spend on a date. Since Paul had left me with a little under twenty bucks-and Gard's check had failed to cash, as of panicked phone call to Girard Bank first thing this morning-I'd been forced to bring a bunch of my beloved records and a watch I didn't wear to a pawn shop, which earned me $24. Grand total: 40 bucks. An amount I prayed was enough for a night out on the town. Again, it had been quite a while since I've done this sort of thing. Last time, the drinks were amazingly cheap.

Amy and I sat down at a table in a ridiculously ornate Mexican restaurant, both are wearing hats. She'd picked the place-only a few blocks walk from our apartment building. Two oversized margaritas sat in front of us. A salsa version of “I Fought the Law” was playing in the background. My collector, Robert, would have been mortified. It had been one of his favorite songs.

“I came here last year for my birthday,” Amy said. “I should say, my friends dragged me here for my birthday. Or maybe it wasn't this place. It looks different. There are a million of these places all over, I guess. By the way, when's yours?"

“My what?"

“Birthday, silly."

“Are you asking me my sign?” I asked, with faux suspicion.

Amy laughed. “Yeah, I guess I am. And in the interest of full disclosure, I believe in horoscopes, astral projection, ghosts and fate. Don't worry. I won't ask the year."

“I'm a Gemini” I said. “Sign of the twin.” I wasn't lying-merely understating.

“I'm a Pisces,” Amy said. “A pair of fish. That's a kind of twin, isn't it?

“Kind of.” I looked around, then touched the brim of my sombrero. “You know, I feel kind of stupid in this hat-"

“C'mon, Del. You look muy cute-o."

“I don't feel muy anything."

“Trust me. You're essential cuteness."

We both took a sip of our margaritas. I knew I had to take it easy, lest I hear about it from the boys in the Brain Hotel later. But the damned thing tasted so alive, like biting into a fresh, ripe lime followed by a river of tequila. Old Tom's margaritas couldn't hold a candle to these.

I stole a glance at Amy. She was “essential cuteness.” Her smile had this sweet, slow way about it-the kind of smile only a few lucky men see every day of their lives. I've always considered marriage to be a sort of lottery, and considered myself not to be the gambling type. There was too much to lose. And the odds were too staggering to overcome. Yet, here I was, sitting with the female equivalent of a thousand dollars a day for life. For a few moments, with the combination of her smile and the tequila, I forgot about the Brain Hotel and everything. It was easy.

“What are you thinking?"

Whoops. She'd caught me staring. “Nothing,” I told her. But I meant: “Everything."

Amy looked to the side and nodded to a small man in a chef's uniform standing in the kitchenway.

“Amy?"

“I'm sorry,” she said. “Something caught my eye."

I stretched my head around as an army of restaurant staffers came marching out of the kitchen with a lit birthday cake, clapping their hands as they chanted: “Happy, happy birthday! Happy happy birthday! Happy happy Day, Del Winter!” They stretched the word “Winter” to eighteen full syllables.

My jaw dropped. “You've got to be kidding."

“I wasn't around to celebrate your last birthday, so here,” Amy said. “We'll celebrate it now."

I smiled in spite of myself. “Amy…"

“Actually, it's a big scam. They never check I.D.s or anything. I just like to get the free dessert."

The Casa Tequila staff surrounded the table, smiling and clapping and singing in manic Spanish gibberish. Finally, the flaming cake was lowered to the table and it was revealed to be not a cake, but a plate of blazing nachos. A staffer in the middle whipped out one of those new, instant-printing cameras. Amy saw her chance, grabbed me by the shirt collar and pulled me into camera range.

“Say nacho cheese!” she shouted.

I was aghast. “Amy!"

The flash popped and I was temporarily blinded. I lowered my head. In fact, I kept my head lowered until the staff dissipated. Amy placed a finger beneath my chin and raised my head.

“Honestly, you looked cute."

I finally looked up, smiled grimly, then took a long, thoughtful sip of my margarita. A sip or two had brought me into this fugue state; it took another to snap me out of it. What was I getting myself into? Where the hell was the investigation headed? Was this what I considering “doing my job?"

“I'm sorry,” she said. “You look annoyed."

“No, no. It was sweet. But I'm not big on pictures."

“Why not?"

“I don't show up well in them."

Amy smiled. “Are you a vampire, Del?"

“What?” Then I got it. “Oh, no, no. I'm not photogenic."

“I think you are. I would love to see some pictures from your childhood."

I looked down at the table. “My family wasn't big on pictures."

“Oh, what a shame,” Amy said. “Well… Del. We'll always have the Casa Tequila."

I smiled again. Again, in spite of myself. Our food arrived. We ate, had some pleasant, meaningless conversation. I promised myself not to be that stupid ever again.

That promise was forgotten after the second margarita.

We arrived back at 1530 Spruce a bit more intoxicated that when we'd left. I pushed the elevator button, she pushed it again, and then I pushed it, and she bolted up the stairs, and I followed suit, laughing all the way.

Amy ran to my door, then turned around and braced herself against it. “If you want to go home, you're going to have to get through me first,” she said.

“I can be a pretty rough customer. You might not survive the encounter."

“I can handle more than you think, mister."

I was tempted-hell, my insides were practically burning up. This was everything I shouldn't be doing with my time on Earth, which was probably why I wanted to do it. Suddenly, I was overwhelmed with the need to grab Amy and smother her lips and press her body back against the door, fumbling blind with the key as I probed deeper…

No. Wait. Horrible idea. No telling when Susannah would call, asking for her babysitter to run over to Rittenhouse Square. What if Amy was inside when that call came? What would I tell her then?

Then I had a better idea: we would go to her apartment.

I touched her cheek with my palm. She smirked, but quickly melted her lips into a fake grimace and bared her teeth. “Come on, soldier. Let's see what you're made of."

My index finger brushed her lower lip. I leaned in close. “Not here,” I whispered. “Let's go upstairs."

Amy jerked her head back. Unfortunately, she didn't have much room to work with, and her skull bumped against hard wood. “Ouch. What did you say?"

“I want to see where you live,” I said, as casually as possible. “I want to see what you're made of."

“No, no, no,” she said, sliding away. “We can't. My apartment is a mess. I couldn't have you up there now. Besides, we're right here at your apartment. Only a few feet away from your couch."

She had a logical point, but something seemed odd-why couldn't we go up to her place? Was she hiding something?

“I feel as if you have an unfair advantage,” I said. “You can tell a lot about someone from their personal belongings."