LITMIR.BIZ

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say, “I think you mean ‘necromancers.’”

      “It’s all the same to me, Merlin. A bunch of middle-age Goths playing with Ouija boards, and talking to spooks and fairies. Or playing Martha Stewart with their Easy-Bake Oven potion kits.”

      “You keep bad-mouthing them like that, one of those pixies is going to turn your guts to banana pudding with one hard look. Or don’t you believe in that kind of thing?”

      “Oh, I believe. I just think those absinthe sippers are a joke. Half the Sub Rosa are out-of-their-mind party animals. The other half dress up like the Inquisition and have committee meetings on how you pixies should live and behave around normal humans. You people are all either drug addicts or the PTA with wands.”

      “They sound like a lot more fun than I remember.”

      “I bet they’re in love with you, boy. You must have missed the memo about keeping a low profile.”

      “If you’re not Sub Rosa, tell me why I shouldn’t be killing you right now.”

      Wells finally turns and looks at me, giving me his best El Paso squint, trying to drill a hole in my head with his eyes.

      “Because if I shoot you, you’re not going to hop up and decapitate me. Just because I don’t work with the Sub Rosa doesn’t mean that I think all nonhumans are worthless. For example, the guns my men and I are carrying were designed by a coalition of human engineers and certain respectable occult partners. What I’m saying is that if you sneeze or blink or do anything even slightly annoying, I’ll burn you down with the same holy fire that the Archangel Michael used to blast Satan’s ass out of Heaven and into the Abyss.”

      “If you’re not Sub Rosa, who do you people work for?”

      “I told you. Homeland Security.”

      “The federal government monitors magic in California?”

      “Not just California. The whole country. It’s our job to keep our eyes on all freaks, terrorists, and potential terrorists, which describes all of you pixies, in my opinion.”

      His heartbeat and breathing are steady. His pupils aren’t dilating. He’s telling the truth. Or he thinks he is.

      “Are you spooks local? ’Cause I just met this funny little Nazi named Josef. Know him? Blond. Good-looking. Not even remotely human.”

      “We know about Josef and his goose-steppers. They’re irrelevant to our current concerns. And we’re not spooks. The CIA are spooks. We heard you and Josef got into a little dustup.”

      “It wasn’t so much a dustup as him beating me about three-quarters to death. He also showed me that I can die and how it’ll probably happen. So, how was your day?” Wells checks his watch again. He’s not as cool as he looked at first. Something is worrying him and it’s not me. “That probably doesn’t make much sense to you.”

      “I’ve read your file. I know all about you. You’ve haven’t exactly been inconspicuous since you got back to town.”

      “You guys have been watching me?”

      “From the moment you walked out of the cemetery. At first, we thought you were just another zombie, and were about to send out waste disposal. But when you mugged that crackhead and didn’t eat him, we decided just to keep an eye on you.”

      “How?”

      “Radar. We’ve got all you pixies on radar.”

      “More respectable magic?”

      “Our friends understand the security issues at stake.”

      “Radar and death rays. Where do I sign up? It doesn’t seem fair that you get all the fun toys.”

      “Cry me a river. Anyway, with all your fun and games, my superior asked me to bring you in for a talk.”

      “Seems like my week to meet bosses.” The cuffs hold my wrists together, which makes my arms rest on my sore chest. I shift around in my seat, trying to find a more comfortable position. I glance out the window and see that we’re crossing La Cienega. “I notice we’re not going to the courthouse.”

      “What makes you think you deserve a day in court?”

      “You’re a cop …”

      “U.S. marshal.”

      “Fine. A cop who can read. Isn’t there something in the law or the Constitution about everyone getting a day in court?”

      “That only applies to the living, son.”

      “I’m sitting right here.”

      “Technically, no. Not in any legal sense. Legally, you’re a nonperson. You’ve been a long-gone daddy out of this realm of existence for eleven years and change. A missing person can be declared dead after seven, which means that you’ve been legally dead almost four years.”

      “You’re not serious.”

      “Look at the bright side. If you were alive, you’d still be the prime suspect in your girlfriend’s murder. If you were alive, the IRS would want to know why you haven’t been filing taxes. Ask me whether I’m more afraid of Hell or the IRS, I’ll go with the IRS every time.”

      “So, you know who I am and where I’ve been.”

      “I know every inch of your sorry waste of a life. My boss might want to talk to you, but to me, you’re a parasite. A waste of space and air. It makes a person wish the earth really was flat. Then we could take all the people like you, load you in a garbage scow, and push you over the edge and out of everybody’s hair.”

      “If you know where I’ve been, then you know why I’m back. Let me go and let me do what I came here for. I’ll get rid of some very bad people for you.”

      “How? By blowing up Rodeo Drive?”

      “That was a mistake.”

      “Was it? Thanks for clearing that up. The truth is, I don’t give a damn about some Hollywood lawyers’ wives and their shoe stores. What I care about is you. What you represent and the kind of trouble you bring with you. You’re a walking calamity.”

      Now I feel it. His heart rate is picking up and there’s the slightest whiff of perspiration coming off him. One of the G-men in the front of the van has turned to watch our conversation. He and Wells smile at each other, sharing some private joke.

      When Wells speaks again, he does it with the kind of phony casualness that lets everyone in the room know that you’re about to tell the bad joke they’ve all been waiting for. Wells says, “So, what the hell kind of a name is Sandman Slim anyway? You think you’re some kind of superhero?”

      I turn and look at him, “You lost me there, Tex. I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”

      “Don’t be modest, we’ve all heard of you. ‘Sandman Slim. The monster who kills monsters.’ I have to admit, it’s kind of catchy. Did you come up with that or did some Hellion ad firm shit that out for you?”

      “Listen, cop. I’ve never heard that stupid name before. Stop calling me it. And tell me where we’re going or I’m getting out.”

      Wells and the marshal in the front laugh. “I wouldn’t try. I’m dead serious when I tell you that I could put a bullet in your head right now and go have a sandwich.”

      “What kind?”

      “What kind of what?”

      “What kind of sandwich? What’s a murder sandwich taste like? Does it come with extra cheese or chili fries? What tastes better after murder, Coke or Pepsi?”

      “You are working my very last nerve, cocksucker.”

      “I’m going home.” I reach across Wells for the door, shoving him back into the seat with my shoulder. The marshal goes

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