huh? Cutter Blade taught it to me for a bottle of Gentleman Jack. I keep the potion back here, and when someone gets untoward, I crush a cup while giving them the hairy eyeball. I’m the new brujo in town, right, motherfuckers?”
People bellied up to the bar clap and hoot. Carlos bows like it’s Las fucking Vegas.
“Why do you need that hoodoo?”
Carlos moves his head from side to side like he’s thinking.
“I can’t have you cleaning up my messes forever. And you can’t be here all the time. I decided that with all you abracadabra types around, learning a trick or two was better than taking one of those pepper-spray courses.”
“That’s not a bad idea. But be careful with that stuff. Crazy shit can happen when you learn on your own.”
“Like what?”
“Make sure you wash that stuff off your hands before you pee,” says Candy.
“I’m going to etch that on my eyeballs,” he says, handing her a beer.
“I’ll come by and teach you a couple of civilian-safe tricks after I find the 8 Ball.”
“Muchas gracias,” says Carlos, and sets a cup of coffee in front of me.
I’m impressed with the hoodoo. It’s hard for civilians to ever do real magic and harder still for them not to kill themselves doing it. But Carlos has always had balls of steel. He’s had skinheads and zombies in here and he just cleaned up the mess and started serving drinks again. When his clientele switched from regular L.A. drunks to Sub Rosas and Lurkers, he didn’t even blink. I’m not surprised he can pull off some bush magic.
Father Traven and Brigitte come in with Vidocq and Allegra. Traven looks tired. His worn soldier’s face is pale and there are dark rings around his eyes. That’s where the drinking comes from. He doesn’t sleep, so he tries to knock himself out with booze. I’ve been there. It works too. But it’ll kill you faster than the worst insomnia.
The father is another civilian who’s picked up a little hoodoo. Before he became a professional bookworm, he was a sin eater, a priest who used bread and salt to ritually consume the sins of the dead. When he started working with us, he learned to use those sins as a weapon. He calls it the Via Dolorosa. It’s like a horrible kiss when he puts his mouth over yours and spits enough sins down your gullet to book you a seat in the deepest, darkest pit in Hell.
Candy gives my arm a squeeze and goes over to the happy couples. Like we agreed, she leads Vidocq, Allegra, and Brigitte away and aims Traven at me.
“Good to see you,” he says. “It’s been a while.”
“Sorry. I got so twisted around looking for the Qomrama that I stopped talking to practically everyone. Especially when I came up with nothing.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Yeah, but I almost got lucky. A guy offered me a million dollars for it a couple of days ago.”
“He thought you had it?”
“How’s that for a kick in the head? And there are other assholes out there who think the same thing. Whoever really has it must be laughing his ass off.”
Traven gestures to Carlos.
“Evening. Could I get a gin and tonic, please?”
“He’ll have coffee. Just like me.”
I pick up my cup and take a drink.
Traven raises his eyebrows.
“You’ve been talking to Brigitte.”
“She’s been talking to us. She’s worried about you.”
He looks at her across the room.
“I suppose with reason. The last few weeks have been both wonderful and very difficult. I’ve never known anyone like Brigitte before. I joined the Church young. I’d never even had a serious girlfriend. I suppose I was running away from the world. Then I met Brigitte and heard about her adventures. She’s opened my eyes to a lot of things.”
“If everything is so Ozzie and Harriet, why are you turning into a lush?”
Carlos sets down the coffee. Father Traven practically drowns it in cream and sugar. I should have ordered him a milk shake.
“The certainty of Hell. The coming of the Angra Om Ya. Of
People bellied up to the bar clap and hoot. Carlos bows like it’s Las fucking Vegas.
“Why do you need that hoodoo?”
Carlos moves his head from side to side like he’s thinking.
“I can’t have you cleaning up my messes forever. And you can’t be here all the time. I decided that with all you abracadabra types around, learning a trick or two was better than taking one of those pepper-spray courses.”
“That’s not a bad idea. But be careful with that stuff. Crazy shit can happen when you learn on your own.”
“Like what?”
“Make sure you wash that stuff off your hands before you pee,” says Candy.
“I’m going to etch that on my eyeballs,” he says, handing her a beer.
“I’ll come by and teach you a couple of civilian-safe tricks after I find the 8 Ball.”
“Muchas gracias,” says Carlos, and sets a cup of coffee in front of me.
I’m impressed with the hoodoo. It’s hard for civilians to ever do real magic and harder still for them not to kill themselves doing it. But Carlos has always had balls of steel. He’s had skinheads and zombies in here and he just cleaned up the mess and started serving drinks again. When his clientele switched from regular L.A. drunks to Sub Rosas and Lurkers, he didn’t even blink. I’m not surprised he can pull off some bush magic.
Father Traven and Brigitte come in with Vidocq and Allegra. Traven looks tired. His worn soldier’s face is pale and there are dark rings around his eyes. That’s where the drinking comes from. He doesn’t sleep, so he tries to knock himself out with booze. I’ve been there. It works too. But it’ll kill you faster than the worst insomnia.
The father is another civilian who’s picked up a little hoodoo. Before he became a professional bookworm, he was a sin eater, a priest who used bread and salt to ritually consume the sins of the dead. When he started working with us, he learned to use those sins as a weapon. He calls it the Via Dolorosa. It’s like a horrible kiss when he puts his mouth over yours and spits enough sins down your gullet to book you a seat in the deepest, darkest pit in Hell.
Candy gives my arm a squeeze and goes over to the happy couples. Like we agreed, she leads Vidocq, Allegra, and Brigitte away and aims Traven at me.
“Good to see you,” he says. “It’s been a while.”
“Sorry. I got so twisted around looking for the Qomrama that I stopped talking to practically everyone. Especially when I came up with nothing.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Yeah, but I almost got lucky. A guy offered me a million dollars for it a couple of days ago.”
“He thought you had it?”
“How’s that for a kick in the head? And there are other assholes out there who think the same thing. Whoever really has it must be laughing his ass off.”
Traven gestures to Carlos.
“Evening. Could I get a gin and tonic, please?”
“He’ll have coffee. Just like me.”
I pick up my cup and take a drink.
Traven raises his eyebrows.
“You’ve been talking to Brigitte.”
“She’s been talking to us. She’s worried about you.”
He looks at her across the room.
“I suppose with reason. The last few weeks have been both wonderful and very difficult. I’ve never known anyone like Brigitte before. I joined the Church young. I’d never even had a serious girlfriend. I suppose I was running away from the world. Then I met Brigitte and heard about her adventures. She’s opened my eyes to a lot of things.”
“If everything is so Ozzie and Harriet, why are you turning into a lush?”
Carlos sets down the coffee. Father Traven practically drowns it in cream and sugar. I should have ordered him a milk shake.
“The certainty of Hell. The coming of the Angra Om Ya. Of
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