LITMIR.BIZ

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Julie is ready to hand me money right now.

      And there’s the other debt . . .

      “All right. I’m in. Let’s do your Mike Hammer thing.”

      She raises a bottle of light beer I missed behind all the papers. I click it with my coffee cup. There’s just one more question.

      “So, we’re partners?”

      She shakes her head.

      “No way. I’m taking all the financial risks. It’s my company. You’re an employee.”

      “But I get stock options and you’ll match my 401(k).”

      “Tell yourself whatever story you need to get yourself out of bed, but as of now, you’re on the clock. Which means sticking to coffee during daylight hours.”

      “You know how to suck all the fun out of being sober.”

      “That’s a boss’s job.”

      My coffee is getting cold, but I sip it anyway. It tastes lousy. I mean, it doesn’t taste any different than it did a minute ago, but knowing it’s my only drink of choice all day, every day . . . Let’s just say that the romance is over.

      “I thought Chihiro would be here with you,” says Julie.

      I turn and scan the room for familiar faces, but don’t find any.

      “She’s out getting some new clothes and things. Since she got her new face, she’s been doing this bleach-­blond kogal look. You know, Japanese schoolgirl drag. She was having fun, but I went through the plaid-­skirt thing back with my old magic circle. A woman named Cherry Moon. She wanted to look like a junior high princess forever. After that, I don’t want anything to do with that Lolita stuff. So, she said she’d figure out something else.”

      “Sounds like she likes you.”

      “She just likes my movie collection.”

      “I’m sure that’s what it is.”

      A new song comes on the jukebox, a fifties cha-­cha version of “Jingle Bells.” I’m going to have to speak to Carlos about how his Santa fetish is curdling his taste in music.

      “I have some good news,” Julie says. “I think I found a real office. On Sunset, near Sanborn. It’s a little two-­story building that used to have a dentist on the first floor and a telemarketing company on the second. The woman who owns it left when the floods started. There’s some water damage in the lobby, but it’s not bad and she has insurance. Best of all, after all the craziness, she doesn’t want to come back to L.A. and will sell me the whole place for a song.”

      “That’s great. Congratulations.”

      Julie smiles.

      “I mean, it’s not much to look at. It’s between an El Pollo Loco and an empty garage, and across the street from a used car lot.”

      “A car lot? That’s convenient. I’m going to need to steal a lot more cars now that I can’t shadow-­walk anymore.”

      “Don’t even think about it,” says Julie, suddenly serious.

      “Fine. I’ll get around on a Vespa. See how much your clients like that.”

      “Can’t you ride your motorcycle?”

      “I brought it back from Hell. There’s no way it’s street legal and I’m not looking for any more run-­ins with LAPD.”

      “And you think stealing cars will help you avoid that?”

      I’m not a huge fan of other ­people’s logic.

      “Don’t worry,” she says, “we’ll figure out something. Just no stealing anything in the neighborhood.”

      “Cross my heart.”

      “With luck I’ll sign the papers next week. I’m putting my condo up for sale. That will cover most of the costs.”

      “I’ll cross my fingers and toes too.”

      “Thanks.”

      Julie shuffles the printouts until they’re straight. She riffles through them one more time and puts them in a soft-­sided leather attaché case.

      “I really think we’re onto something,” she says.

      “I hope so.”

      I look at the last dregs of cold coffee in my cup.

      “I need another drink. You?”

      She drains the last of her beer. Shakes her head.

      “I’m good. You’re sticking with coffee, right?”

      “While you drink beer?”

      “I don’t have a drinking problem.”

      “You think I do?”

      She starts to say something, but stops, like she doesn’t want to get into it.

      “Just stick to coffee for now.”

      “Yes, boss.”

      I head back to the bar. Carlos sees me coming and has the coffeepot ready.

      “How’s the sober life treating you so far?”

      “It’s been ten minutes of sheer hell.”

      “I hear it gets better.”

      “Really?”

      “No.”

      “Fuck you.”

      Carlos puts a hand to his ear.

      “Sorry. I can’t hear you over the music.”

      I give him the finger as he moves on to other customers.

      “You heard me just fine.”

      Someone says, “Drink up, cowboy. I’ll get the next round.”

      It’s a woman’s voice, but when I look there’s no one there. Someone taps me on the shoulder. I have to turn to see her.

      She’s wearing shades. Round and deep black, so her eyes are invisible. Her hair is buzzed to maybe an inch long and dyed cotton-­candy pink. Black lipstick and a bomber jacket over a “Kill la Kill” T-­shirt. Black tights with thigh and shinbones printed in white down the sides. Shiny black boots with pointed studs on the toes and heels.

      “So,” Candy says. “Different enough?”

      “Plenty. Perfect. Still got your knife?”

      She opens her jacket and shows me where she’s had someone at Lollipop Dolls sew in a leather sheath.

      “Think my lunch-­box gun will go with the ensemble?”

      “I think you’d look naked without it.”

      She grins and gets a little closer.

      “Naked. I like the sound of that. I checked out my reflection on the way in. I’d do me. How about you?”

      I shake my head.

      “Careful. Out here in the world we’re still getting to know each other.”

      She purses her lips and pulls the jacket around her.

      “You’re goddamn paranoid. You should see someone about that.”

      “I tried, but she kept writing things down. It made me more paranoid.”

      Candy looks away at the bottles behind the bar.

      “I went to all this trouble and I can’t even kiss you.”

      “Grab a drink and come back into the corner. Julie and I are just about done with our meeting.”

      “Fine,” she says.

      I

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