LITMIR.BIZ

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the last. There are many in this world, and others, who believe that at the end of time the Mithras will escape and grow until it has burned down all of Creation. The ashes of our existence will fertilize the soil for the universe to follow.”

      “How much is something like that worth?”

      “It’s not for sale. And if it were, not in this lifetime or with the accumulated wealth of your next thousand lifetimes could you afford it. Don’t be too ambitious too quickly, my friend. If we’re able to do business more regularly—and I think that we can—then your payment will increase and become considerably more interesting.”

      I put the bills Muninn gave me into the inside pocket of the tuxedo jacket.

      “Who were we working for tonight?” I ask.

      “That’s confidential.”

      “Not even a hint?”

      “Answers are easy, but hints cost money. Save yours for now. You’re going to need a new suit,” he says, fingering a hole in my sleeve where some of the golden sparks have burned through.

      We say good night and start back up the steps to Muninn’s store.

      “Would you mind picking up those coins you dropped?”

      I wave to him and pick up each one as we pass. When we reach the shop, I drop them in the bowl I’d stolen them from.

      In the elevator, Vidocq asks, “Why do you care who Muninn’s client is?”

      “That’s was a big coincidence walking into Jayne-Anne’s place tonight. It’s the second time since I’ve been back that I happened to stumble into a member of the circle. I want to know if I’m being set up.”

      “Muninn will never tell you. It’s a matter of honor for men like him. We must be more careful.”

      The elevator reaches the ground floor and Vidocq slides the brass gate open.

      “This is going to get worse, you know. That run-in with those goons tonight? That’s nothing.”

      “Inter urinas et faeces nascimur. We are born between piss and shit,” he says. “Many wanted to kill me back in my day in France. The criminals I sent to prison. The local police who never believed I was anything other than the rogue and thief I was in my youth. Even the Sûreté, the special police force I built for Paris, one based on true scientific principles—even they were corrupted by those in power and turned against me. Most of what I’ve built or had has been taken away from me by liars and curs, so if you’re going to tell me to go away or that I don’t have to stay for what’s coming, kiss my arse. The things that Mason and his friends do—they are the things of men. Mason has power, maybe more power than any magician in history, but he is still a man. I am not afraid of any man.”

      “Let’s go get drunk.”

      “And piss on our enemies from a great height.”

      I’M SITTING AT the bar in the Bamboo House of Dolls, playing with the Barbie-size keyboard on my new phone. Phones are like toys now. They fit in your pocket, light up and vibrate like joy buzzers. Plus, you can get—I mean, “access”—the Internet and find anything you want. Music. Maps. Porn. Anything. If cell phones came with a cigarette dispenser, they’d be the greatest stupid invention ever.

      “Googling yourself?” asks Carlos.

      “What’s that?”

      “Searching for yourself on Google. Find out how famous you are. How many places you’re mentioned. They call it ‘ego surfing.’ Just put in your name.”

      The first thing that comes up is an old L.A. Times article on Alice’s murder. It’s just a filler piece with no details because who cares about one more dead punk? It’s kind of insulting, but I’m grateful not to know too much about exactly what happened to her. I’m still not ready for that.

      Carlos is right. I’m on Google, too. Apparently, LAPD is looking for me as a “person of interest” in Alice’s murder. So much for ego surfing.

      I put in Mason Faim and get another L.A. Times article on the fire at his house—the first one. Not the one Vidocq and I started. There’s a sketchy obituary, too. Sounds like they found a body in the mansion; it was so far gone that they couldn’t check dental records and get a decent DNA sample. My guess is that the body was the Circle’s resident hippie, poor, dumb TJ. Mason isn’t the type to let a perfectly good corpse go to waste if he can use it to convince people that he’s dead.

      Another search and I find Jayne-Anne’s name mentioned in about a million places. Mostly society-page party and charity events, political fund-raising, and movie premieres. Anywhere she can get up close and personal with the masters of the universe.

      I put in Cherry Moon’s name and get a link to a Web site. Click on the link and there she is, in perfect Sailor Moon drag, a rhinestoned cell phone in one hand and a pink teddy bear backpack in the other. She looks even younger than she did before I went Downtown. When I left, she could pass for twelve or thirteen. Now she looks like she’s eleven, tops. I hope it’s done with makeup, but I have a feeling it’s something else.

      I click the enter button and go to her site. It’s the same thing inside. A pretty little girl’s pretty little diary, full of gossip about her cool friends and the neat things they do together. Plus pages and pages of pictures of her in maybe a hundred different Gothic Lolita outfits, everything from Shirley Temple pinafores to pirates to a kimono-clad vampire with fake fangs. It’s a pretty convincing little girl’s site, only Cherry is about my age. If I didn’t know her better and know that this was all an act, I’d think she was retarded.

      There’s a links page with buttons that lead to you to the sites of the rest of her prepubescent coven. At the top of the page is a big link to a site called Lollipop Dolls. That was the name of the creepy girl gang she hung out with while we were in the Circle. Now Lollipop Dolls seems to be an expensive store on Rodeo Drive selling imported Japanese anime and monster-movie toys, games, and custom Gothic Lolita clothing. Now I know what Mason gave Cherry as her reward. I check the address one more time, go the bathroom in the back of the bar, step through a shadow, and come out on Rodeo Drive.

      It’s sunny on Rodeo. It’s always sunny on Rodeo. When rich trophy wives with platinum AmEx cards and endless supplies of Vicodin float down the street like Prada parade balloons looking for $20 lattes and $2,000 jeans, it goddamn well better be sunny.

      Cherry’s store is at the end of the block. I’ve got my knife, a gun, and I’m wearing the motocross jacket with the Kevlar inserts. The perfect accessories to go shopping for a Hello Kitty lunch box.

      LOLLIPOP DOLLS IS like some weird little girl’s hunting lodge. The heads and faces of every Japanese cartoon character and monster are hung on the walls like trophies. Their plastic guts are in model kits on the shelves and their skins are draped on padded hangers in long rows of animal prints and Little Bo Peep frills. When I turn around, there’s a platoon of twelve-year-old Cutie Honey types staring up at me, letting me know that I’m extremely not welcome. It’s Village of the Damned with ankle socks.

      I say, “I’m looking for Cherry Moon.”

      One of the Lolitas walks over to me. She barely comes up to my chest.

      “Who the fuck are you?”

      It’s exactly what I thought it would be, and now that I know, it’s even worse. What comes out of this mouth of Lolita in a pink ball gown and yellow ribbons isn’t a cartoon squeak, but the voice of a thirtysomething bar chick who’s had too many late nights and smoked too many unfiltered Luckies. That’s the other thing Mason gave Cherry. The power to be twelve forever and to do the same thing to her creepy entourage. A terminally fucked-up fountain of youth.

      “I’m an old friend of hers. We both knew Mason way back when.”

      “Are you stupid or are you fucking stupid? No one talks about Mason around here, cocksucker.”

      I’ve

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