LITMIR.BIZ

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and keep looking. After a while you realize it doesn’t hurt as much as you thought it would.

      “Okay. Roscoe’s.”

      WE SIT IN a booth in the back of Roscoe’s, me with my back to the wall. It’s an old family habit after Wild Bill caught one in the spine back in Deadwood. Neither of us had to look at the menu to order. Roscoe’s specializes in fried chicken and waffles in a heroin-addictive gravy. You eat there because the food is great, and if you live in L.A. and aren’t going to flat-line on a speed binge, you might as well check out with arteries the color and density of concrete.

      I’ve been trying to ignore my arms all morning, but I can’t stand it anymore. I heal fast, but it’s just a fast-forward version of how everyone heals and that means almost-healed skin itches like hell. I lean back against the wall, scratch one arm and then the other. It feels great. I want to dig underneath the red skin and new scars and hack away at the nerves with my fingernails so they’ll shut up.

      Candy says, “Have you been sleeping in pet-shop windows? You look like you have fleas.”

      “A Gluttire demon made me his chew toy last night.”

      “You have all the fun. I’ve never even seen one of those.”

      “Unless you see it through binoculars from an air-conditioned bunker, you don’t want to. The bastard burned the hell out of my arms.”

      “Let me see.”

      I shrug off my coat and push my burned sleeves out of the way. (I really need to change clothes soon. It looks like I stole my clothes from a hobo arsonist.) I hope there aren’t any nice families looking over here right now. They might have to bag up their chicken and finish it at home.

      Candy leans across the table and pokes my raw red left arm.

      “Hey. That hurts.”

      “You big baby. It doesn’t look so bad.”

      “I’ll send the next Gluttire to your place to give you a massage and a skin peel.”

      Our drinks arrive. My coffee and Candy’s Coke. I haven’t eaten with her before, but I hear that Jades have a real sweet tooth.

      In between sips of soda she says, “After breakfast we should see Allegra. She’ll have something to fix you up.”

      “That’s not a bad idea. Even if it’s only something to stop this damned itching.”

      Candy takes the straw from her drink and wraps it around her finger.

      “Let’s start the job interview. Mr. Stark, what’s your favorite color? Your favorite movie? Your favorite song?”

      “Are you fucking serious?”

      “It’s called speed dating. You have five minutes to see if you like someone, then a permed-bitch control freak rings a bell and you have to move on to someone else.”

      “You’re serious. You’ve done this?”

      She makes a face and shakes her head.

      “Hell no. But I want to see you squirm. And I have lots worse questions than those. If you were a tree, what kind would you be?”

      Someone remind me why I came back to earth.

      “Christ. Okay. Ask me the questions again.”

      She gives me a wicked smile.

      “Favorite color, movie, and song.”

      I glance at the kitchen, willing our food to arrive so I can stuff my mouth and not talk.

      “Hellion gray, Herbie versus Godzilla, and ‘The Star-Spangled Banner.’”

      “Okay. Now me.”

      “If this is how speed dating works, I think I’ll stay home with Kasabian.”

      “Go on.”

      “Okay. Favorite car, movie, and way to use a knife.”

      Our food arrives while she’s answering. Thanks to whatever monsters are watching over me. This will be over in a minute.

      “Shelby Mustang and Evil Dead II. I’ve never used a knife except to cut bagels.”

      “Wrong. The correct answer is a ’71 Impala Super Sport. Once Upon a Time in the West. And from behind, your right arm around the throat and an upward thrust with your left so the blade slips between the ribs and into the heart.”

      The waiter is laying out the plates when I answer. He freezes for a second then puts down our cutlery and glasses of water. He turns and walks away slowly, like from a rabid dog, trying not to draw its attention or piss it off. What a pro. I’m leaving him a massive tip.

      “How are the waffles?”

      “Perfect. How about your chicken?”

      “Smoothing over this hangover like a road grader.”

      We don’t talk for a while. Just eat our food like a couple of civilians who haven’t killed enough people to populate a small city. It’s been six months since that night at Avila when we were both in monster mode, ripping our way through some of L.A.’s most elite millionaires and politicos, all of them Mason’s accomplices as he tried to open the gates of Hell. Candy and I did kiss each other that night. A hard, long kiss while we were covered in other people’s blood, a couple of monsters who recognized each other and weren’t afraid of what they saw. And then nothing. Candy went back on the wagon, taking Doc Kinski’s potion to keep from turning back into a killing machine. Then the Drifters invaded. And someone was looking to kill Doc, so she went on the road with him. I don’t know if there’s anything between us really, but it sure as hell feels like someone sprinkled mayhem and saltpeter all over creation to make sure we never find out.

      I feel a little guilt bubbling up in the back of my mind. It’s the same feeling I always get when I look at a woman who isn’t Alice. But like Candy said, we’re here now. Let’s just see what happens. I can’t live in the shadow of Alice’s absence every moment of my life. I don’t push her away, but let her drift back where she was. Not forgotten, but not making me wish I was dead. I don’t let the picture of the Sentenza kid get to me either. Julia found one exorcist, so she can find another. Hell, I could point her to some Sub Rosa demon hunters.

      My phone buzzes. A text comes through.

       The girl is delicious. You’re right to be with her.

       Leave the case alone. Forget you heard about it.

       Stay with the pretty girl.

      I push the plates away and get to my feet, storming through the restaurant looking for anyone holding a phone. A guy in blond dreads and a sleeveless T-shirt is looking at his. I’m across the room in two long steps and snatch it from his hand. A woman’s voice comes out of the speaker. He’s listening to his voice mail. I slam the phone on the table and stomp out of the emergency exit, setting off the alarm. There’s no one on the street. A dusty station wagon and a VW Bug pass each other in the road. Only one passenger in each and neither of them has a phone.

      I push back into Roscoe’s through the front door. Everyone in the place is looking at me like they’re expecting the crazy man in the coat to set off the bomb he’s obviously hiding.

      I go to the table and show Candy the message.

      “Tell me this isn’t you or Vidocq. Or something one of you set up with Julia.”

      She shakes her head.

      “Vidocq wouldn’t and I didn’t,” she says. I look at her and let the angel out for a second so he can look, too. He sees what I see. She’s telling the truth.

      I take a couple of the hundreds I grabbed from my stash of vampire money last night. Drop the money on the table and nod for Candy to follow me out. We double-time it back to Hollywood Boulevard to get lost in the tourist crowd

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