It was a slip I had to risk; he never admitted what pen-names he used. But he was boiled enough to pick up only the last: “‘Woman’s angle! ”” he repeated with a snort. — Yeah, I know the woman’s angle. I should. —

“So? — I said doubtfully. — Sisters? —

“No. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. —

“Now, now, ” I answered mildly, “bartenders and psychiatrists learn that nothing is stranger than truth. Why, son, if you heard the stories I do-well, you’d make yourself rich. Incredible. —

“You don’t know what “incredible” means! “

“So? Nothing astonishes me. I’ve always heard worse. —

He snorted again. — Want to bet the rest of the bottle? —

“I’ll bet a full bottle. — I placed one on the bar.

“Well-” I signaled my other bartender to handle the trade. We were at the far end, a single-stool space that I kept private by loading the bar top by it with jars of pickled eggs and other clutter. A few were at the other end watching the fights and somebody was playing the juke box-private as a bed where we were.

“Okay, ” he began, “to start with, I’m a bastard. —

“No distinction around here, ” I said.

“I mean it, ” he snapped. — My parents weren’t married. —

“Still no distinction, ” I insisted. — Neither were mine. —

“When-” He stopped, gave me the first warm look I ever saw on him. — You mean that? —

“I do. A one-hundred-percent bastard. In fact, ” I added, “no one in my family ever marries. All bastards.

“Oh, that. — I showed it to him. — It just looks like a wedding ring; I wear it to keep women off. — It is an antique I bought in 1985 from a fellow operative — he had fetched it from pre-Christian Crete. — The Worm Ouroboros… the World Snake that eats its own tail, forever without end. A symbol of the Great Paradox. —

He barely glanced at it. — if you’re really a bastard, you know how it feels. When I was a little girl-“