this to Father Traven.”
“I can take it to Liam, if you like,” says Brigitte. “I’ll be seeing him tonight.”
I look at Candy. She moves her head microscopically. A secret nod. So that’s who Brigitte is seeing. Two nice Catholic kids. A killer and an excommunicated priest. Sounds like a match made in Heaven.
“You should come and see him soon,” Brigitte says. “The weight of things is hard on him. I think he drinks too much these days.”
“How about tomorrow?” says Candy. “Perfect. He’ll be happy to see you.”
“I didn’t just get eaten by a bear,” I say. “I’ll be happy to see anyone.”
M AYBE HAPPY ISN’T the right word. Maybe relieved is better. There isn’t a lot to be happy about. Yeah, it was fun busting up the Tick-Tock Man’s place, but now I’m back to square one. All my leads are blown up, burned down, run off, or dead, or as dead as a windup toy can be. Declan Garrett is still around, but he was trying to buy the 8 Ball from two different sources, so it’s pretty clear he doesn’t have it. I haven’t even heard anything useful about Aelita or Medea. I think all I’ve really accomplished in the last month is making Mr. Muninn really depressed. I’m nowhere. More wasted time. Why am I doing this? I’m ridiculous. No one cares. Most people don’t even believe the Angra exist much less are coming back. Hell, I’m starting to wonder myself. Am I playing this game because I’ve run out of legitimate things to kill? No. I saw Lamia and I know she was real, so the Angra are real. Still, maybe it’s time to just walk away and let things work themselves out. We die or we don’t. I’ve been there before. Will I have time to shout one last “I told you so” when the Angra burn the world? That’s a hell of a last request. Maybe I should have given Candy her Christmas present after all. I need a drink.
W E DECIDE TO meet at Bamboo House of Dolls. It’s a holy place. My second home. The best bar in L.A. A punk tiki joint. Old Germs, Circle Jerks, Iggy & The Stooges posters on the wall. Plastic palm trees around the liquor bottles. Coconut bowls for peanuts. Martin Denny and Les Baxter on the jukebox. And there’s Carlos, the bartender, mixing drinks in a Hawaiian shirt. I met him my first day back from Hell. Helped him out with a skinhead problem and now I drink for free. Ain’t life grand?
“Sir Galahad returns,” he says when he sees me. “How’s the saving-the-world biz?”
“Slow. But it’s a growth industry. I expect a lot of investors when Godzilla takes a shit on Disneyland.”
“Hold a place for me in the lifeboat. I’ll bring my cocktail mixer and we can toast El Apocalipsis with Manhattans.”
“Sounds yummy,” says Candy.
“How are you doing, ma’am?” he says.
“Great. I’ll be spectacular with a beer in me.”
“You got it,” says Carlos. “Aqua Regia for you?”
I shake my head.
“Black coffee. I’ll be setting a saintly example tonight.”
“Better you than me,” says Carlos. “Hey. Put that back.”
There’s a skinny blond guy in a red Pendleton shirt trying to palm the cash the drunk next to him left sitting on the bar.
I reach for the guy, but before I touch him he screams. His hands have shrunk to doll size.
I don’t see any witches or Coyote tricksters around. Carlos is holding a crushed paper cup in his hand. Holy water, amber, and spots of what look like red mercury wormwood drip from between his fingers. Fucking Carlos just used hoodoo on someone.
“Where did you learn that?”
“Get up and get out,” Carlos tells Tiny Hands.
The money is too big for the guy to hold on to. He drops it on the floor. I think he wants to scream, but his brain has vapor-locked.
“Your hands will be okay in a couple of hours. But your head won’t be if you ever come back here,” says Carlos, grabbing up a baseball bat from under the bar.
Still staring at his mangled hands, Tiny Hands backs out the door.
“Neat trick,
“I can take it to Liam, if you like,” says Brigitte. “I’ll be seeing him tonight.”
I look at Candy. She moves her head microscopically. A secret nod. So that’s who Brigitte is seeing. Two nice Catholic kids. A killer and an excommunicated priest. Sounds like a match made in Heaven.
“You should come and see him soon,” Brigitte says. “The weight of things is hard on him. I think he drinks too much these days.”
“How about tomorrow?” says Candy. “Perfect. He’ll be happy to see you.”
“I didn’t just get eaten by a bear,” I say. “I’ll be happy to see anyone.”
M AYBE HAPPY ISN’T the right word. Maybe relieved is better. There isn’t a lot to be happy about. Yeah, it was fun busting up the Tick-Tock Man’s place, but now I’m back to square one. All my leads are blown up, burned down, run off, or dead, or as dead as a windup toy can be. Declan Garrett is still around, but he was trying to buy the 8 Ball from two different sources, so it’s pretty clear he doesn’t have it. I haven’t even heard anything useful about Aelita or Medea. I think all I’ve really accomplished in the last month is making Mr. Muninn really depressed. I’m nowhere. More wasted time. Why am I doing this? I’m ridiculous. No one cares. Most people don’t even believe the Angra exist much less are coming back. Hell, I’m starting to wonder myself. Am I playing this game because I’ve run out of legitimate things to kill? No. I saw Lamia and I know she was real, so the Angra are real. Still, maybe it’s time to just walk away and let things work themselves out. We die or we don’t. I’ve been there before. Will I have time to shout one last “I told you so” when the Angra burn the world? That’s a hell of a last request. Maybe I should have given Candy her Christmas present after all. I need a drink.
W E DECIDE TO meet at Bamboo House of Dolls. It’s a holy place. My second home. The best bar in L.A. A punk tiki joint. Old Germs, Circle Jerks, Iggy & The Stooges posters on the wall. Plastic palm trees around the liquor bottles. Coconut bowls for peanuts. Martin Denny and Les Baxter on the jukebox. And there’s Carlos, the bartender, mixing drinks in a Hawaiian shirt. I met him my first day back from Hell. Helped him out with a skinhead problem and now I drink for free. Ain’t life grand?
“Sir Galahad returns,” he says when he sees me. “How’s the saving-the-world biz?”
“Slow. But it’s a growth industry. I expect a lot of investors when Godzilla takes a shit on Disneyland.”
“Hold a place for me in the lifeboat. I’ll bring my cocktail mixer and we can toast El Apocalipsis with Manhattans.”
“Sounds yummy,” says Candy.
“How are you doing, ma’am?” he says.
“Great. I’ll be spectacular with a beer in me.”
“You got it,” says Carlos. “Aqua Regia for you?”
I shake my head.
“Black coffee. I’ll be setting a saintly example tonight.”
“Better you than me,” says Carlos. “Hey. Put that back.”
There’s a skinny blond guy in a red Pendleton shirt trying to palm the cash the drunk next to him left sitting on the bar.
I reach for the guy, but before I touch him he screams. His hands have shrunk to doll size.
I don’t see any witches or Coyote tricksters around. Carlos is holding a crushed paper cup in his hand. Holy water, amber, and spots of what look like red mercury wormwood drip from between his fingers. Fucking Carlos just used hoodoo on someone.
“Where did you learn that?”
“Get up and get out,” Carlos tells Tiny Hands.
The money is too big for the guy to hold on to. He drops it on the floor. I think he wants to scream, but his brain has vapor-locked.
“Your hands will be okay in a couple of hours. But your head won’t be if you ever come back here,” says Carlos, grabbing up a baseball bat from under the bar.
Still staring at his mangled hands, Tiny Hands backs out the door.
“Neat trick,
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