”She produced a balisong knife from a compartment in one of the armrests that looked to serve as Helen’s junk drawer and idly flicked it open and ...losed before returning it. (The armrest that pulls down on the other side of her usual seat is a bit of a “Lost & Found of the Rich & Famous.” It’s how I ended up with Vicente Fox’s silver monogrammed mustache comb. Helen gave it to me. She said the replacement she bought him two months before was gold and that he liked it better, so he’s OK with me. .”I raised a finger at her, signalling her to wait. Then I drew out a cigar, clipped it and lit it. When it was glowing nicely, I turned to her.“You’ve been fucking around on me for the past three weeks, maybe more. Probably more. You thought you were hiding it, but you weren’t. It was your stories that gave you away.”She looked incredulous. “What do you mean, my stories? What are you talking about?”I gave a ruefully bitter laugh. “The stories you and your women friends tell when we all get. More

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