That Touch of Ink by Diane Vallere

that ended in his living room. An orange tweed sofa sat along one wood-paneled wall, and a shag carpet the color of air-popped popcorn softened our footsteps.
    This house had once belonged to his grandmother. She’d left it to him when she passed away. While the seventies interior seemed contradictory to Hudson’s punk exterior, I knew he’d rather be surrounded by what felt familiar, what felt like family, than to gut it and start over. I liked that about him, that he had a quiet respect for who, and what, had made him the man he was, even if the rest of the world had renounced orange tweed and shag carpeting.
    He pulled the cork out of a bottle of red wine and poured two glasses. He set one on top of the table in front of me. Mortiboy sat on the end of the sofa. He didn’t move when I sat down, which demonstrated a new level of acceptance from the feline.
    “What’s this all about?” Hudson asked.
    “I don’t know.”
    “Madison, you’re asking about counterfeit bills. That doesn’t sound like a decorating project. If you know something about a crime in progress or a crime that’s been committed, you’d do best to contact your friend on the police force and tell him what you know.”
    “He’s partially aware of it. Besides, I don’t really know anything. That’s the problem.”
    Hudson sat down. Gently, he picked up my hand, flipped it over, and rubbed his thumb against my palm. Even though I was silently urging him to continue, he set it back down on my own knee. I took a deep breath and exhaled. I needed to talk and I knew Hudson would listen.
    “Somebody sent me a five thousand dollar bill. I once said I could be bought for five thousand dollars, because it’s the only bill with my name on it. It’s the James Madison. It was a private joke.” I looked down at my hands in my lap. “If it’s real, it’s worth a lot of money. If it’s not real, well, I don’t know what it means. It could mean somebody is in a lot of trouble.”
    “Do you know who this somebody is?”
    “Somebody is the demon I was telling you about.”
    “How well do you trust him?”
    “I used to trust him with my life.”
    Hudson picked up his wine glass and took a long sip. I could see him savoring the taste before he swallowed. He leaned back against the cushions of his chair and nodded at me. “But now?”
    “The list of people I trust with my life got a lot shorter a couple of months ago.”
    Hudson was one of the people on that list. My being there, telling about my problem, should have tipped him off if he didn’t already know it.
    “There’s more,” I said. I leaned forward and swirled the wine around in my glass. “I was at Joanie Loves Tchotchkes earlier today. She had a framed five thousand dollar bill hanging behind the register. It seems like too much of a coincidence. I think at least one of them is fake. Maybe both. I don’t know why someone would counterfeit a bill that’s been out of circulation for half a century, but I guess I want to know what would be involved in the process.”
    “Madison, like you said, I just finished dealing with my own demons. I’m not itching to put myself back on the cops’ radar.”
    I leaned forward and put a hand on his knee. “I would never ask you to do anything illegal. I hope you know that.”
    Quietly, after a long pause, he said, “It could be done.”
    “What would it take?”
    “A powerful magnifying glass. Saturated inks, a very fine paintbrush. Rag paper, or the materials to make paper with the right fabric content. Maybe a piece of clothing from the era to provide the fibers, in case the paper gets tested.”
    “Like a forger painting a van Gogh who uses dirt from the original artist’s neighborhood?”
    “Same principles. How deeply are you involved in this?”
    “I don’t know yet. I still don’t know exactly what it is I’m involved in.”
    I sipped at my wine but was too lost in my thoughts to enjoy it. Mortiboy curled up on his end of the