“What?”
“ ‘You’re not one of his.’ ”
“Do you know what it means?”
“Not a clue. Maybe Saint James? Maybe Blackburn?”
“Maybe Colonel Sanders.”
“Yeah. There’s an annoying number of possibilities.”
Mike is on his feet when I look back at him, the vodka cradled in his arms like a newborn baby.
“Let me get this straight. All you can tell me about Saint James is that he’s someplace you don’t know about and that you don’t know how to get to. A dead girl tried to kill him but you don’t know why or who the girl is or where she’s from. Does that sum things up?”
“That’s everything, man. I swear. Can I have my soul back now?”
“That’s not even a postcard, Mike. That’s not even a phone number scrawled on a cocktail napkin. Do you really think that’s worth a soul?”
Mike shifts his weight from foot to foot like he has to go to the bathroom. By now he probably does.
“Yes?” he says.
“Wrong,” says Candy.
“Wrong. It’s worth shit. The closest thing you can get to nothing without being nothing.”
Mike shrugs.
“Sorry. I mostly deal in gossip. Stuff like Blue Heaven isn’t my specialty. Hell, I didn’t even know how to get in touch with you to sell my soul.”
No. A guy like Mike wouldn’t, would he? He’d have to go to someone. A name pops into my head.
“Do you know Amanda Fischer?”
“That Hollywood devil-worshipping bitch?” says Mike. “I mean. Sorry.”
“Forget it. So you know her.”
“I built her a peacock and a Persian cat. One of her crowd did my soul conjuration. It cost me a wolf.”
Mike takes an anxious sip from the bottle.
“I want to get in touch but I lost my address book. Do you have her number?”
Mike goes to a desk as filthy as the sofa and as crowded with junk as the worktable. It reminds me a little of Mr. Muninn’s cavern, full of centuries of obsessive collecting. Mike finds an old gray metal Rolodex, pulls a card out of it, and brings it to me. It says FISCHER, AMANDA. Below that is a Beverly Hills phone number.
“Nice work, Mike. You pulled things out there at the last minute. I thought I was going to have to feed your bones to my associate but you came through.”
“So now I can have my soul back?”
“Not a chance. But I’ll tell you what you can do to get it back. I have a friend, really just sort of a yammering bastard. He’s stuck on a mechanical body, only it’s not finished. You finish him off and you’re halfway home.”
“What’s the other half?”
“I need you to build something else. A Hellion-to-English translator. And it needs to read lips.”
Mike sits on the sofa and sets the bottle between his feet.
“Is that all?”
“You do that and you can have your soul back.”
He looks up at me. Big fat tears in his dumb, red eyes.
“You promise?”
I take out a pack of Maledictions and tap him out the last one.
“If you can’t trust a man who gives you his last cigarette, who can you trust?”
He takes the smoke and I light it with Mason’s lighter. Mike nods.
“What choice do I have?”
“None. I’ll be in touch with the details.”
Candy starts out. I follow but stop at the door to put on my glove.
“What’s the story with the vucari out front?”
Mike shakes his head. Wipes the tears from his eyes with the heel of his hand.
“My cousins. From the old country. Fucking Cossacks.”
“But you’re not a Lurker.”
“It was a mixed marriage,” he says.
“I see why you made the deal. If I had to work with family, I’d prefer Hell too.”
“Yeah. Maybe I’ll sell you my soul back,” he says. Then quickly, “I’m only kidding.”
“I know, Mike. I know.”
We go back to the Porsche. Mike’s cousins beat on the dead car, smiling at us like they’re tenderizing steaks for our dinner.
I get out my phone and dial Amanda Fischer’s number. She answers on the fifth ring.
“I don’t recognize your number. How did you get this one?”
“Don’t you know me, Amanda?” I say in my spookiest Hail Satan voice. “It’s Mr. Macheath.”
The line goes quiet. I hear breathing, then, “This doesn’t sound like Mr. Macheath. How do I know it’s you?”
I try to remember what happened when I met her and her Devil toadies at the Chateau Marmont with Lucifer 1.0.
“I have the lovely pyx you gave me on the mantel in my library.”
“Master!”
“New rule. Don’t call me ‘master.’ Lucifer will do.”
“Yes, Lucifer. What can I do for you, Master?”
This shit again. Why are all Hellions and devil worshippers bottoms?
“I’m sorry,” she says.
“It’s quite all right. Now I need you to do some things for me. I need some information.”
“Yes, Lucifer. What kind of information?”
“I want everything you can find about a place called Blue Heaven. Where it is. How you get in.”
“I didn’t think anywhere was barred to you.”
“You’ll notice that part of the name includes the word ‘Heaven.’ All Heavens have a waiting list to get in and my name is at the bottom.”
“Of course, Lucifer. Sorry.”
Candy looks bored. She gets out of the car, goes back to the garage, and starts talking to the shorter vucari. By her body language she’s flirting.
“What do you know about this ghost girl running around town?”
“Our mediums say she’s a hungry ghost. A spirit that will never be satisfied no matter how much she devours. She’s killed a lot of people.”
“I know. A lot of Sub Rosa.”
“Not just Sub Rosa. Ordinary mortals too. In fact, she’s killed members of our temple. When I knew it was you, I was hoping you’d returned to save us.”
Now Candy is flirting with the taller vucari. She glances over her shoulder at the shorter one and she and Ivan laugh together. The short vucari isn’t pounding on the car anymore.
“Of course I’m here to save my followers. But I have to know which of my flocks are worthy of saving. Yours isn’t the only temple in California, Amanda.”
“Of course. We’ll prove ourselves worthy of you.”
I doubt that.
“I’m sure you will. I’d like all information you can find as soon as possible. Let’s say tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? That’s hardly any time at all.”
“Then you’d better get started.”
Candy steps out of the garage, running her hand down Ivan’s arm and holding his pinkie for a second. She blows the short vucari a kiss and comes back to the car.
I put my hand over the receiver when she gets in.
“What was that all about?” I whisper.
“Watch,” she says.
In the garage, the vucari cousins are shouting. The little one pokes Ivan in the chest with the wooden handle of his mallet. Ivan swings and clocks the little guy. But he doesn’t go down. He crouches and slams his shoulder into Ivan’s belly. Ivan falls on the shorter vucari and they end up in a pile of flailing fists and feet, rolling around the garage floor like a spider having a seizure.
I mouth, “You’re evil.”
Candy shrugs and mouths, “I was bored. And I love messing with dumb guys.”
“One more thing, Amanda. I’m going to need guns. Pistols. I’m not sure what I’ll be in the mood for, so bring an assortment. Like teacakes to a party. All right?”
“My pleasure, Lucifer. I live to serve you.”
“Of course you do.”
“Where shall I get in touch with you? The usual? The Chateau Marmont?”
Goddamn. I forgot about that place.
“Yes, the Chateau. My usual suite.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow evening, Lucifer.”
“Ciao.”
I put the phone away and Candy leans back like she’s never seen me before.
“You have a suite somewhere? You’ve been holding out on me.”
“I don’t have one yet but I think I will when we get back to town.”
“Is there room service? I like room service.”
I put the black blade in the ignition and start the car.
“How does Rinko feel about you spending time with me? She knows about us, right?”
“She’s not brain-dead, so yeah, she knows. I told you before, Rinko and I aren’t married. She knows you and I have something and you know she and I have something. No one has to be here who doesn’t want to be. I mean, there’s nothing that’s stopping you from seeing someone else.”
“I’m not interested in anyone else.”
“Really? Is that why Sasha Grey had her tongue down your throat last night?”
“Brigitte? That was nothing. Just a couple of old zombie slayers who haven’t seen each other in a few months.”
“Another month and you two would have been dry-humping on the bar.”
“And spill our drinks? Against the bar maybe, but not on it.”
“Keep talking and I won’t go back to your suite with you.”
“You started it.”
“Did I? I don’t remember. Home, Jeeves.”
I pull a U-turn across four lanes of traffic and head for the freeway. When we pass the garage Ivan and his pal are still wrestling.
We’ve been on the freeway maybe five minutes when I spot the pickup truck. It’s not hard. It’s been on our tail since we got on the road. It’s white like a rental but the windows are tinted opaque black. There aren’t many rental companies that do that, and by “not many,” I mean none.
“We’re being followed.”
Candy turns and looks out the back window.
“Which one?”
“The white pickup.”
“Are you sure?”
“Let’s find out.”
I stomp the accelerator and the Porsche tears a hole in the traffic ahead. I squeeze between two SUVs as they’re changing lanes and cut off a cable-company truck trying to pass a wrecker on the shoulder. Candy turns and looks out the back.
“The pickup is still there.”
“Put on your seat belt.”
“You always sound so serious when you think we’re going to die.”
“I have an allergy to being dead.”
“I didn’t say I minded. I like it when you talk butch.”
“Good. Shut up and keep an eye on the truck for me.”
“Yes, sir.”
Of course the truck can keep up with a Porsche. It’ll be some of King Cairo’s crew in a pickup souped up with Aelita’s Golden Vigil tech. Outrunning the asshole isn’t an option. The only thing I can do is stay clear of it until one of us grows wings or runs out of gas.
I let the wrecker pass and when the traffic thins for a second I jerk the steering wheel, blasting the Porsche across all six lanes to the far side of the road. A second later the truck follows. I cut back a couple of lanes.
“They’re still on us,” says Candy.
There’s no way they think I’m Saint James. The first attack might have been a mistake but this is a straight-up hit.
I try to charge back over the way we came but we’re trapped between a lunch truck and a chop shop Camaro, the body covered in primer and all the doors different colors.
The pickup accelerates and rams us. I can’t hold the wheel. I sideswipe the lunch truck. We bounce off and tag the Camaro before I get control again. I floor the Porsche and we shoot ahead to an open spot in the traffic.
“Still there,” says Candy.
I aim the Porsche all over the road, changing lanes like I’m drunk, seasick, and snow-blind. The goddamn pickup stays on our tail.
I cut back to the slow lane and slide in between two sixteen-wheelers, drafting off the first. Bad idea. The pickup pulls alongside us and the front and rear windows roll down. I know what’s coming and don’t want to see it.
I jerk the wheel right, completely blind. Aiming for the shoulder of the road. Lucky for us there’s no one there. It’s shit news for the truckers though. The shooters in the pickup truck start firing their modified rifles. They miss us and hit the side of the rear truck. Rear and front tires blow. Shots hit the cab. I can’t tell if the driver is hit or not. The truck starts drifting into the pickup’s lane while its trailer slides in the opposite direction, pulling the rear of the truck around on the bad tires. It jackknifes, cutting off five of the six lanes. I hit the accelerator, trying to get ahead of the chaos. I do, but so does the pickup. It rams us again. And again. The little Porsche isn’t made for this kind of abuse. There’s a metallic grinding from the back like the rear axle is about to go.
There’s an overpass ahead. I look at Candy.
“Do you trust me?”
“I hate that question.”
“Do you trust me?”
“Yes.”
“Then undo your seat belt and put your head down on your knees.”
“I hate how this sounds.”
“Don’t worry. It gets worse.”
The pickup moves up to ram us again. I stay ahead until just before the overpass. And stomp the brakes, pulling up on the handbrake at the same time. The pickup can’t slow and hits us at full speed, driving up the rear of the car and over the top like we’re a ramp. I throw myself on top of Candy. Wrap my arms around her. The car roof smashes down on my back but stops when it hits the armor. The weight of the truck is suddenly gone and we start to slow. From below I hear the sound of crashing metal and exploding glass. The Porsche slows and comes to a stop, grinding against the guardrail.
