At the end of my search there was a Frenchman named Claude. He told me in a stiff tone (every word spoken in roundabout code) that his daughter could help me; she dabbled in this sort of thing, and she was good at what she did. He left the bar before I did, directions to their little hovel hastily scrawled on a napkin left crumpled against my glass. I finished the sludgy, bitter drink I had ordered, and wobbled back home to Kurt.
I told him, in whispered tones too low to be heard by anyone listening, about the girl. I trembled as I spoke, my fingers dancing like twitchy spiders against his hip as I leaned in close. He humored me listening quietly, his eyes never moving from the sleepy static winding its way across the television screen. I twisted my fingers into his belt loop when I was done, staring up at him with an excited grin.