Calming him down, getting him to believe his secrets could stay safe for all of me, took another twenty minutes. I still wanted to know why he called his business Chocolate Weasel and what sort of magic he did in connection with it, but I didn't want to know bad enough to listen to him for twenty minutes more, so I didn't ask. I figured I could make a fair guess from the dump records anyhow.

When I got around to them. If I ever got around to them.

That all began to look extremely unlikely. Just as I was about to let the spirit start moving with the report again, someone came into my office. I felt like screaming, "Go away and let me work!" But it was my boss, so I couldn't. Despite my grumblings, Beatrice Cartwright isn't a bad person. She's not even a bad boss, most ways. She's a black lady about my age, maybe twenty-five pounds heavier than she ought to be (she says forty pounds, but she dreams of being built like a light-and-magic celeb, which I'm afraid ain't gonna happen). She's usually good about keeping higher-ups off her troops' backs, but she can't do much when Charlie Kelly calls you (or, more to the point, me) at home at five in the morning.

"David, I need to talk with you," she said. I must have looked as harassed as I felt, because she added hastily, "I hope it won't take up too much of your time." Even talking business, her voice had a touch of gospel choir in it She never hit people over the head with her faith, though. I liked her for that I said, "Bea, I'll have that fumigants report for you as soon as the bloody phone stops squawking at me for three minutes at a stretch." I looked at it, expecting it to go off on cue.

But it kept quiet "Never mind the report" She sat down in the chair by my desk. "What I want to know is why I've gotten calls from Loki and Convoo and Portentous Products this morning, all of them screaming for me to have you pulled away from the Devonshire dump. I didn't even know you were working on anything connected with the Devonshire dump." She gave me her more-in-sonrow-than-in-anger look, the one calculated to make even an eighth-circle sinner get the guilts.

More-in-sorrow-than-in-anger disappeared 'when I explained how Charlie had gone around her to call me.

Real anger replaced it. If she'd been white, she'd have turned red. She said, "I am sick to death of people playing these stupid games. Mr. Kelly will hear from me, and that is a promise. Doesn't he have any idea what channels are for?" She took a deep breath and deliberately calmed down. "All right, so that's how you got involved with the Devonshire dump. Why are these people phoning me and screaming blue murder?"

"Because something really is wrong there." By now, I could rattle off the numbers from the Thomas Brothers' scriptorium in my sleep. "And because I'm trying to find out what, and - I think - because the Devonshire Land Management Consortium honchos aren't very happy about that."

"It does seem so, doesn't it?" Bea thought for maybe half a minute. "I still am going to talk to Mr. Charles Kelly, don't you doubt it for a minute. But I would say that, however you got this project David, you are going to have to see it through."

"I thought the same thing the minute I first saw those birth defect statistics up at the monastery," I answered.

"All right. I'm glad we understand each other about that then. From now on, though, I expect to be kept fully informed on what you're doing. Do I make myself clear?"

I almost sprained my neck nodding. Even if she weren't my boss, Bea wouldn't be a good person to argue with. And she was dead right here. I said, "I was going to tell you as soon as I got the chance - Monday morning staff meeting at the latest. It's just that"-I waved at the chaos eating my desk-"I've been busy."

"I understand that. You're supposed to be busy. That's what they pay you for." Bea stood up to go, then turned back for a Parthian shot: "In spite of all this, I do still want the revisions on that spilled fumigants report finished before you go home tonight." She swept away, long skirt trailing regally after her.

I groaned. Before I had the chance to let the access spirit finish scanning the secondary revisions (and, let us not forget, the primary revisions about which Bea had later changed her mind), the phone yelled for attention again.

After Judy and I went to synagogue Friday night, we flew back to my place. I've already remarked that my orthodoxy is imperfect. Really observant Jews won't use carpets or any other magic on the Sabbath, though some will have a sprite trained to do things for them that they aren't allowed to do themselves - a shabbas devil, they call it.

But such fine scruples weren't part of my upbringing, so I don't feel sinful in behaving as I do. Judy's attitude is close to mine. Otherwise, she would have called me on the carpet instead of getting on one with me.

When we were settled with cold drinks in the front room, she said, "So what's the latest on the Devonshire dump?"

I took a sip of aqua vitae, let it char its way down to my belly. Then, my voice husher than it had been before, I explained how all the consortia that dumped at Devonshire were so delighted to have their records examined.

"How do they know their records are being examined?"

Judy, as I've noted, does not miss details. She spotted this one well before I needed to point it out to her.

"Good question," I said approvingly. "I wish I had a good answer. The people who've been calling me, though, sound like they've been rehearsing for a chorus." My voice, to put it charitably, is less than operatic. I burst into song anyhow: "It has come to my attention that-" I gave it about enough vibrato to fly a carpet through.

Judy winced, for which I didn't blame her. She tossed back the rest of her drink, then got out those two little porcelain cups. I would have been more flattered if I hadn't had the nagging suspicion she was trying to get me to shut up.

Whatever her reasons, though, I was happy to let her use up some of my beer. And, not too long afterwards, we were both pretty happy. Later, she got up to use the toilet and the spare toothbrush in the nostrums cabinet Then she came back to bed. Neither of us had to go to work in the morning. Except for Saturday morning services, we'd have the day to ourselves.

I thought We were sound asleep, half tangled up with each other as if we'd been married for years, when the phone started screaming. We both thrashed in horror. She bumped my nose and kneed me in a more tender place than that, and I doubt I was any more gallant to her. I had to scramble over her to answer the phone; my flat's laid out to suit me when I'm there by myself, which is most of the time.

I spoke my first coherent thought aloud: Tm going to kill Charlie Kelly." Who else, I figured, would call me at whatever o'clock in the dark this was?

But it wasn't Charlie. When I mumbled "Hullo?" the response was a crisp question: "Is this Inspector David Fisher of the Environmental Perfection Agency?"

"Yeah, that's me," I said. "Who the - who are you?" I wasn't quite ready to start swearing until I knew who my target was.

"Inspector Fisher, I am Legate Shiro Kawaguchi, of the Angels City Constabulary." That made me sit up straighten I was beginning to be fully conscious. Having Judy pressed all warm and silky against my left side didn't hurt there, either.

But what Kawaguchi said next made me forget even the sweet presence of the woman I loved: "Inspector Fisher, Brother Vahan of the Thomas Brothers monastery requested that I notify you immediately."

"Notify me of what?" I said, while little ice lizards slithered up my back. Judy made a questioning noise. I flapped my free hand to show her I couldn't fill her in yet. "Of what?" I repeated.

"I regret to inform you, Inspector Fisher, that Brother Vahan's monastery is now in the final stages of burning down.