“Coming down the chimney.”

“Through a shadow.”

“Yeah.”

“I miss seeing that.”

“You can get an eyeful tomorrow.”

“He’ll hear you and throw us out.”

“Hear me? I’ll be as quiet as a cotton-candy mouse.”

“I’m not so sure about this, Jimmy.”

“Sure you are. It’ll be fun. Dress pretty and bring your gun.”

“A man who knows how to speak to my heart.”

She gives me Rose’s address. I repeat it and Candy writes it down.

I say, “See you tomorrow, Brigitte,” and hang up.

Candy beams at me.

“I hope we get to shoot something. I haven’t had a girls’ day out in a long time.”

BEL AIR IS a neighborhood that lies just west of Beverly Hills and sees its neighbor the way that neighbor sees the rest of L.A.: as a wasteland of upstarts, criminals, and wayward teens with their bongos and jungle music. If the sun ever set in Bel Air, no one would notice because its homes and residents are so luminous they’d light the night sky all on their own. It’s a land where the gold standard never died and the roads are so clean you could perform open-heart surgery on any street corner.

Candy and I emerge from the shadow of a lamppost so pristine it could’ve been put there this morning. We’re on North Beverly Glen Boulevard, across the street from the address Brigitte gave me.

The place is called Clear, an old upscale faux-Gothic hotel rebranded by one snotty nouveau chic chain or the other. The residents of these hotels are always the same. Oblivious executives in town for a day to make another billion because the billions they have aren’t enough. Handsome young lovers so bursting with happiness and privilege that you want to punch the DNA that created them. And old long-term residents baffled by the bright lights and excited plastic-surgeried crowds rushing in and out of the place 24/7. Clear reminds me of palaces I saw in Hell, but in worse taste.

Brigitte is in the lobby. She’s a knockout in a short green sequin dress and pearls and a little silver clutch purse just big enough for her CO2 pistol. She looks like a flapper ninja. Candy is in her usual too-big leather jacket and Chuck Taylors. I’m in a frockcoat with guns. Which two of us don’t look like we belong in the Clear?

Brigitte kisses Candy and me on both cheeks. Candy says something to her that I miss and they both start laughing. They’re giddy at the idea they’re going to see some action. I’m hoping we don’t. And if something happens, fingers crossed that we don’t start it, and by “we,” I mean them.

We ride the elevator to the twelfth floor, go left, and walk almost to the end of the corridor.

“Herr Rose has two rooms, 1210 and 1212. But we’ve been instructed to knock only on 1210,” says Brigitte.

“Easy to remember,” I say. “Twelve-ten. When they signed the Magna Carta.”

Both women look at me.

“Don’t look at me like that. There was nothing to do in Hell but hide and read books. Is that a crime?”

Candy says, “Marcus Aurelius and now the Magna Carta? I’m starting to think that bullet unleashed your inner geek.”

“I had an inner geek once. But a doctor lanced it and it went away.”

“Call an ambulance. It’s growing back.”

Brigitte smiles.

“You two are charming together.”

“I was plenty charming all on my own,” says Candy. “I’m just carrying the geek so he doesn’t cut himself on a bullet and bleed to death.”

“Are you two done? I knew I should never let you near each other.”

Brigitte says, “I think he just called us . . . What’s the word?”

“Brats,” says Candy.

“Yes. Brats.”

“That’s because you are brats.”

“And who’s more foolish? The brats or the man who invites the brats to a gunfight?” says Brigitte.

“No gunfights. I didn’t invite anyone to a gunfight. This is a normal everyday ambush, not the O.K. Corral.”

“If you’re going to be boring about it, at least be entertaining. Disappear into one of your shadows while we distract Rose with our wiles.”

“Yeah,” says Candy. “The wiles girls are in business.”

She loops her arm in Brigitte’s.

I walk into a shadow by a picture window down the hall, surer than ever that I should have worn body armor.

I STILL HATE walking into unknown rooms, but I’ve never heard of a dangerous Tick-Tock Man, so I’m more likely to walk in on a game of Dungeons & Dragons than bearbaiting.

I come out in a room that reminds me of Garrett’s. A generically elegant place, but a little more old school than his was. The wood looks like wood instead of veneer and the paintings look real instead of like overpriced prints.

Rose has two adjoining apartments. One for living and one for a workspace. The guy is either loaded or his rental agreement is so old it’s written on parchment and he pays for it with shells and brightly colored beads.

He must be one of those genius types, like Tesla. Guys who would rather live in a hotel than have their own home. Live somewhere they know the sheets and towels will always be clean and where they can get a grilled-cheese sandwich from room service at four A.M. Because we’re in Bel Air, I want to hate his setup, but the truth is, I understand the addiction. I love squatting in the Chateau Marmont. Plus, I never told anyone, but part of me is happy that so many of my clothes end up burned, slashed, shot up, or generally too bloody to deal with. It’s a great excuse never to do laundry. I can deal with fighting in the arena in Hell, but laundry and dishes put the fear of God in me.

I can hear Rose in his workroom, so I stay out of sight in his living quarters.

At three on the dot there’s a knock. Rose goes to open the door and I get my first look at him.

He’s an older guy but not over the hill. In his early sixties maybe. Long, salt-and-pepper hair combed back from his forehead and over his ears. I see lab coats on the wall, but he knows company is coming, so he’s wearing a pressed, old-fashioned, forties-style high-waisted blue suit and tie with a diamond pattern down the center. He could have stepped right off the set of Out of the Past.

He opens the door and there are Candy and Brigitte, carpet-bombing him with their wiles. Old Rose can’t help but smile.

“Knock knock,” says Brigitte.

“You must Mr. Blackburn’s friends.”

“You bet,” says Candy. “Can we come in? We don’t bite.”

“Of course. Please come in.”

Rose stands aside and Candy and Brigitte walk in like they already own the place. Old Atticus looks like he’s about to hand it over to them.

“Would either of you ladies care for some coffee? If you’d like something stronger, I keep whiskey in the apartment. If you’d like wine I can have some sent up.”

He speaks in a deliberate flat drawl. Not southern. Maybe Okie. I had some cousins from Oklahoma. All I remember about them was that they pronounced theater with a long a.

“No thank you. You have a lovely workshop,” says Brigitte.

That’s an understatement. It’s a little slice of Heaven compared to Manimal Mike’s jerry-rigged setup. The space is clean and stocked with every tool in this world and probably a couple of others. There’s enough room for several people to work at once. Rose must have assistants because there are at least a dozen animal familiars around the room, some fully built and others just steel and gear frames.

“Thank you,” he says. “May I give you ladies a tour?”

Just like I thought. Atticus, a professional recluse, can’t help but want to show off his toys. He brings them over to a table where a half-constructed tabby cat lies curled up near unsewn swatches of fur.

Watching them like this isn’t fun. It brings bad old feelings. This is how my hits in Hell used to go. I’d come through a shadow into someone’s home and wait, sometimes hours, for them to get relaxed or distracted, and then quickly, quietly, I’d cut their throats with the black blade. Things only got messy if they had a bodyguard or a hapless, soon-to-be-dead friend strolled into the slaughter scene. No one ever got away. I was a slave and a killer and I was good at it. I don’t want to be any of those things today, so I stay put and take deep breaths, letting the memories fade away.

Speaking of people who need to crank things down a notch, Rose’s heart is doing its own tap dance. Brigitte got good information. This boy likes wide-open spaces. Even with two not-very-large women in the room, he’s uncomfortable.

“Thank you for seeing us so quickly,” Brigitte says to Rose.

“Of course. Any friends of Saragossa are welcome.”

“What’s this?” says Candy. She’s across the workroom on her own, lost in Rose’s mechanical zoo. Nearby is what looks like a wild dog with broad stripes down its back.

“That’s a Tasmanian tiger, young lady. They’re extinct. If you want one I’m the only Tick-Tock Man in the world who can give you an exact copy of an original, capturing both its spirit and its wild soul.”

“It looks expensive.”

“Very expensive,” says Rose.

Candy looks at Brigitte.

“Mom, can I have one if I’m good?”

Brigitte laughs.

“Maybe for your birthday, dear.”

Candy strokes the tiger’s ears.

Rose’s breathing and heart spike like someone rigged his scrotum to a 220 line.

“Please don’t touch that,” he says, and crosses the room in a few strides to where Candy is standing. She backs off and goes back to Brigitte while Rose combs the tiger’s fur back the way it was.

“Do you ever make anything besides animals?” says Candy.

She’s setting him up for me to knock down. Rose isn’t relaxed enough to attack, but he’s plenty distracted. I take off my glove and put it in my pocket.

“Like what?” says Rose.

I walk into his workspace balancing the 8 Ball on my Kissi hand.

“Something like this.”

I toss the ball at Rose. He catches it. Clutches it to his chest like a life preserver.

“How did you get in here? Get out before I call hotel security.”

I look at the girls.

“You know, people used to have pride. They’d keep a baseball bat by the door and hit you themselves. Now everyone has hired goons. What happened to the American can-do spirit?”

Candy and Brigitte snigger. Rose doesn’t move. He’s looking at my funny hand. I go to the hotel phone on the wall. Pull it out of the wall and crush it like a soda can in my trash-compactor fingers.

“Sweet Jesus,” whispers Rose.

I can read Rose like the Sunday funnies. He’s on the edge of panic. There are way too many people in here, but he’s conflicted. Who does he ask to go? The pretty ladies or the crazy man with the mechanical meat hook? He’s afraid of me but he’ll weep bitter tears every night if he passes up the chance to get a better look at my Kissi arm.

I use it to take back the 8 Ball. Wave it in front of him.

“Focus. Where did you see the real 8 Ball? Who did you make the fake one for?”

Candy and Brigitte stroll around the room playing with Rose’s tools. Running their hands over his animals’ fur and feathers.

“The sooner you answer, the sooner we’ll be gone,” I say.

He glances at the 8 Ball and shakes his head.

“I’ve never seen that thing before in my life.”

“It has your mark on it.”

“Then it’s a damn fake.”

Candy tosses Brigitte a wriggling koi. She catches it, laughing as it tries to squirm out of her hands.

“If you think we’re being unreasonable, think about it from my point of view. Not only did I lose the real 8 Ball, but your goddamn fake almost got me killed. Right now we’re going to play volleyball with every kitty cat and titmouse in here until you fess up and tell me who has the real ball.”

“I don’t know.”

“Who wanted the fake one?”

“It’s all lies.”

I stop for a minute. Is there a chance I’m torturing the wrong guy? I’m good at reading people, but Rose’s heart rate and breathing are off the chart. His pupils are the size of baked hams. But I’m still not convinced he’s all that innocent.

“Please. You people have to leave.”

Reset and try another approach. I pull up my sleeve and show him my whole Kissi arm. Rose’s vitals slow. He’s back in his own zone. He’d love nothing more than to dismantle me piece by piece.

“I’ll let you look at it if you want. Examine the hell out of it and see how it works. Just tell me about the Qomrama.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

There it is. The microtremor in his lips when I said the 8 Ball’s name.

“You’re lying. Who was the fake one supposed to kill? Garrett? Or the buyer? Who was the buyer?”

Candy has a diamondback curling around her arm. It looks delicate and pricey.

“Declan Garrett,” says Rose.

The idiot from Donut Universe. Good.

“And who showed you the real Qomrama?”

“I never saw it. Just pictures. And diagrams in books they gave me.”

Shit. Rose is telling the truth. I can feel it. He never saw the real 8 Ball. Maybe whoever commissioned the fake one might never have seen it either. Just knew about it in an old book and had Atticus run him off a mobster clone. If that’s true, then chasing Moseley, getting shot, and almost getting blown to refried beans was for nothing. Still, there might be something to salvage.