LITMIR.BIZ

      I HEAD BACK to Max Overdrive to change my scorched party clothes. I’m an Evel Knievel doll that a kid lit on fire and tossed on Dad’s barbecue. Good thing I bought the motocross jacket with Brad Pitt’s money. Otherwise, I’d be really pissed off. At least my boots are all right. And I still have the silk overcoat. Thanks, Brad. Hope Avila’s security goons didn’t confiscate your stun gun.

      Going through the door at Max Overdrive, even the back door, usually feels good. It’s boring and normal. Burned up like this, I don’t bother. I step through a shadow and straight into my room. For the few seconds I’m in the room, there’s noise coming from behind every door, especially the thirteenth. Something seismic is rippling through the aether, giving the universe indigestion. Good.

      I take off my ruined clothes, toss them into the far corner of the room, and dig out a hoodie and pair of black jeans that I picked up with Muninn’s cash. Then I walk the few steps through a dark patch in the wall to Vidocq’s apartment.

      I knock and let myself in. Allegra is holding an old book that looks like it weighs more than she does. Vidocq is reading it over her shoulder, with a couple of potion vials in his hands. They look up when I come in. Allegra doesn’t say anything. Vidocq turns back to his worktable. I don’t need super magic sense to figure out that something isn’t right. He takes a set of keys from his pocket and hands them to Allegra.

      “Would you take the car and get us some lunch?”

      I walk into the room. “You own a car?”

      “I own and do many things you don’t know about. You don’t know anyone anymore. You don’t listen. You don’t care.”

      Allegra walks to the door.

      When she passes I ask, “Cat got your tongue?”

      She turns to me. “You fucked up good, man.” When she leaves, I look over at Vidocq, but he won’t look at me.

      Quietly he says, “You and your cowboy bullshit. There’s no excuse for what you did today. It was too public and too reckless. You could have been killed. You could have killed others.”

      I sit down on the arm of the easy chair. “Right. It’s all my fault because Parker was being so careful not to hurt civilians.”

      “You should never have gone after him, Mason, or the others like this.”

      “If I didn’t, which one of you was going to? You were a detective once. Why didn’t you track Mason down?”

      Vidocq shakes his head, turns away, ands flips pages in the book that Allegra had been holding when I came in. “I tried for a while, but I saw things. I heard things. Don’t ask me what.”

      “You people have had eleven years to deal with Mason and, as far as I can tell, you haven’t done a goddamn thing. You think he grabbed all that magical power so he can retire? You should be on my side, trying to snuff him.”

      “People were here earlier. Representatives from the Sub Rosa.” Vidocq finally looks at me. “They came to me because they know that you and I are close.”

      “Are we still? I can’t tell lately.”

      “They’re done with you over that debacle. There were so many people. So many security cameras in the stores and on the street. Tourists with more cameras. There’s only so much they can do to cover it up.”

      “They have a story yet?”

      “A publicity stunt for a movie. Equipment malfunctioned. There are many Sub Rosa in the film industry. They’ll pay any fines and lawsuits this time. But they won’t next time.” Vidocq makes a face like he can smell two-week-old garbage from the apartment next door. “In this matter, no one is on your side.”

      “Are they going to kick me out of the magic union? Take away my 401?”

      “This isn’t a joke.” Vidocq slams the book closed. “These are powerful people. Medea Bava was here. She left this for you.” He hands me a small white linen bundle tied with horsehair. Crow feathers inside. And wolf teeth spotted with blood.

      “An Inquisitor? That’s a fairy tale. They don’t exist.”

      “That lady sure existed,” says Allegra. “Her face was more messed up than yours.”

      Vidocq says, “These people can hurt you.”

      “Let them try.” I get up and go to the door. “Tell those Sub Rosa and their meter maids that they have three choices if they want me out of L.A. They can help me. They can stay out of my way. Or they can kill me.”

      Out in the hall a guy with two overflowing bags of groceries stops dead in his tracks, his key halfway to his door lock. With Vidocq’s apartment being invisible to civilians, it must have looked like I appeared out of thin air.

      “Oh. Hello,” says the guy.

      “Good-bye,” I say, and disappear through a shadow right in front of him.

      CARLOS HANDS ME a plate of rice, beans, and enchiladas in a thick mole sauce. I tear right into them. I’m starving after the fight, and Carlos’s food is so good I want to marry it.

      “You been doing your ninja thing again?” Carlos asks.

      “What makes you say that?”

      “One side of your face and your hands are all red, like a burn.”

      I look at my hands. They’re scraped and raw-looking, like I’ve been juggling cinder blocks. “No big deal. They’ll be fine by morning.”

      “I have aloe in the back if you want some.”

      I shake my head. “Thanks anyway. Another scar or two isn’t going to ruin my pretty face.”

      “Right.”

      “Carlos, are you being polite? That’s not what I come here for. I know I’m not Steve McQueen.”

      “My lady is totally in love with him. Lucky for me he’s dead or I’d be in trouble.”

      I hold up my glass of Jack Daniel’s in a toast. “Here’s to all the guys better looking than us. May they all die first.” Carlos picks up his glass, clinks mine, and we drink.

      For the first time since I’ve had it, my cell phone rings. I don’t even know what it is at first. It feels like a rat is having a nervous breakdown in the pocket of my hoodie. When I get it out, it takes me a second to remember which button to push to answer it.

      “Hello?”

      “Jimmy?”

      “Who is this?”

      “It’s me. Cherry. I heard you were at the store. I didn’t believe her.”

      “So, you called someone you didn’t think was alive?”

      “I called because if you were alive, I need your help.”

      I don’t answer for a minute. I eat a forkful of enchilada.

      “Jimmy?”

      “Don’t call me that. I don’t like it.”

      “What should I call you?”

      “The guy you helped send to Hell for eleven years of torture.” I get up and walk over by the jukebox, speaking quietly. “The guy who is seriously thinking about redecorating the inside of that store of yours with your guts.”

      Now it’s her turn to not talk.

      “I know you must hate it.”

      “Hate

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