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Elvis has left the building.

CANDY IS BACK at work when I get a call from Vidocq asking me to come over. After the cops’ giving me a pass last night, I’m feeling better about riding the Hellion hog and wearing my real face during daylight hours. Glamours are easy, but if you do them too much they get itchy. But it might be time to switch out the license plate on the bike. The owner has probably reported it missing. It’s harder finding expensive motorcycles to steal because their owners don’t like to leave them on the street. I have a policy of only stealing pricy vehicles because I know the owners will have good insurance. It’s like what my mom said: “Only bums steal from bums.” I might be a killer, an Abomination, and a thief, but I’m not a bum.

Traffic is light and I make it to Vidocq’s in good time.

“James,” he says, and hugs me, pulling me inside. I can smell the booze on him from out in the hall. I pick up a bottle of expensive-looking red wine from the coffee table.

“Are we celebrating something?”

He puts an arm on my shoulder.

“The light. The air. The fact we have been through so much and lived to talk about it.”

From the kitchen, Liliane says, “We are all little miracles, right Eugène?”

I missed her when I came in. She’s as tanked as Vidocq. I hold up the wine bottle.

“Hey there. Nice stuff you brought.”

She comes into the living room.

“Oh. You know wine?”

“No. I was just being polite.”

She and Vidocq laugh a little too much at that. Liliane takes the bottle from my hand and pours me a glass. I hold it up to them both and take a sip. It’s nice. A good excuse to get hammered with your ex while your current girlfriend is at work. I look at Liliane.

“I’ll admit I was a little confused at Bamboo House the other night. What should I call you now?”

“For safety’s sake, you should probably continue to use ‘Marilyne’ in public,” says Vidocq. “Liliane is only a name for private moments.”

“It’s true,” she says. “In Los Angeles on this day, in this year, I’m Marilyne. The name cost me quite a lot of money. I need to get my money’s worth.”

Vidocq takes a big swig of wine and settles on the sofa. Liliane sits down next to him. I take the chair across from them.

“We’ve both had many names over the years. I’ve lost count of how many,” Vidocq says.

“And it gets harder every year. A century ago, with a few pieces of paper you could be anyone you wanted to be. Travel the world and come home again. These days, it’s all fingerprints and computer chips in your passport.”

Vidocq sighs, drinks.

“It’s one of the many reasons I’ve never returned to Paris. I’ve simply waited too long.”

“It’s why I’m applying for citizenship,” says Liliane. “Travel is difficult for people like us. It will be even harder in the future. Soon, just staying alive and anonymous will be a nightmare.”

Vidocq puts his hand on hers. Gives it a squeeze.

“We will get by. There’s always a way. Right, James?”

He points his glass in my direction and mock-whispers to Liliane, “Young James here is legally dead, yet he walks the streets and runs a business. Together, we will all survive.”

“Together,” says Liliane.

They look at me.

“Together,” I say, and finish my wine.

Vidocq pours me another. I look around the place. There are books open and lab equipment scattered across his worktable.