LITMIR.BIZ

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couple of pages.

      He says, “Have you heard of a killer called Saint Nick?”

      “I think maybe I saw something when Kasabian was channel-surfing. A killer running around in the rain. So what? L.A. cranks out more serial killers than shitty sitcoms. He sounds like cop business to me.”

      “To me too until yesterday,” says Wells. “Do you know why they call him Saint Nick?”

      “Because it’s close to Christmas?”

      “Half right,” the Shonin says. “He’s Saint Nick because he likes to give his victims a little cut.” He laughs.

      “You mean he chops them up?”

      Wells nods.

      “And removes some of the parts. Different combinations of limbs and organs with each killing.”

      “Why?

      “We don’t have a motive yet,” says Wells. He tosses the manila envelope back on the desk. “But we found some notes and coded e-mails that lead us to think that this Angra bunch wanted to die by his hand. They thought they’d draw him out by imitating him.”

      “That explains all the mystery bodies.”

      “Right.”

      “But he never showed up,” says the Shonin. “Hobaica was afraid that they’d been rejected by their God.”

      “So, this Saint Nick guy is an Angra worshiper?”

      “Who knows?” says Wells. “But this bunch thought he was, and when they felt rejected they did the only thing that made sense to them.”

      “To prove their loyalty to the Flayed One, they sacrificed themselves imitating Saint Nick as best as they could,” the Shonin says.

      I say, “Hobaica told me he was waiting for me. How did he know I was following him?”

      “You’re so fat he saw you coming a mile away,” says the Shonin.

      “I saw that in your report. You’re certain he said that?” asks Wells.

      “He saw me standing in a slaughterhouse with a knife to his throat. Yeah, the moment is pretty well imprinted in my brain,” I say.

      “That’s bad. It means at least this one Angra cult is working with a psychic. And if one has a practicing psychic, it probably means they all do.”

      “I have a slightly different theory.”

      “What’s that?”

      “You have a mole in the Vigil.”

      Wells comes over to me.

      “Are you trying to be offensive? This isn’t just a law enforcement organization. It’s a holy calling.”

      “What this bunch did was a holy calling too. To them. You think you’re immune to bad influences in the ranks? Stop a moment and think who you’re talking to. I’m a bad influence on bad influences, but at least I’m up front about it. If an asshole like me has Vigil credentials, who else does?”

      “I do not believe one word of this malarkey,” says Wells. He doesn’t say anything for a minute. “But it can’t hurt to get new security clearances on all the personnel.”

      “I left my résumé in a hole in the ground in Yamagata four hundred years ago,” says the Shonin. “Happy hunting for that.”

      Wells looks at me like he’s thinking of taking the ID back.

      “Get out of here for now,” he says. “But keep your phone on. I might need you later. I want to sort this Saint Nick thing out fast.”

      “What about the 8 Ball?” I say. “Shouldn’t the bag of bones be working on that instead of playing medical examiner?”

      “Unlike some people, I can multitask,” says the Shonin. “So fuck you, round boy.”

      “Please,” says Wells. “The profanity. You’re a holy man.”

      “Your nephilim is right about himself. He’s a bad influence. Go home and infect your friends.”

      “Don’t leave yet,” says Wells. “I need you to go and see Marshal Sola.”

      “Julie Sola is back in the Vigil?”

      “Marshal Sola is with us again. And she has some papers to go over with you.”

      “What kind of papers?”

      Wells smiles.

      “Part one of your psych evaluation.”

      “Excuse me?”

      “Everybody goes through it. I did it. Marshal Sola—”

      “How about Aelita?”

      That stops him cold.

      He says, “You will go to Marshal Sola, do her paperwork, and pass the evaluation or you don’t get paid.”

      “This is bullshit.”

      “Watch your language. And this is nonnegotiable.”

      I start out but stop and look back at the Shonin.

      “Hey, muertita. You know what an Ommah is? I heard a Jade say it.”

      “You’re involved with a Jade and you don’t know what an Ommah is?”

      “I lost my library card. Just tell me what it means.”

      “It’s an old word. Arabic. It means ‘mother.’ The Ommahs are the Jade matriarchs. They control the whole Jade world. Set the rules. Tell them where to go and what to do.”

      “When to have kids?”

      “Especially that. Breeding is very important to Jades. They like to keep their lineage clean and controlled. It’s why they go for such a high price.”

      “What do you mean a high price?”

      “At market. When they’re sold. There are few Jades in the world. They live short, exciting lives and are gone. That’s why they’re so expensive.” The Shonin laughs. “How do you not know these things?”

      “Thanks,” I say, and leave. As the door closes I can hear the Shonin.

      “Seriously. How dumb is that boy?”

      Apparently, dumber than even I thought.

      To hell with Wells and his inkblots. I need a drink.

      I go outside and call Candy. No one answers, so I leave a message that I’m going to Bamboo House of Dolls and that she should meet me there if she’s feeling better.

      The rain still pounds down. A couple of agents under an awning palm their cigarettes when I come out. They whisper to each other and quietly laugh. Yes, I’m a commander of men.

      Six Vigil agents in expensive golf clothes play a round under oversize umbrellas. Disguised spooks playing a fake round of a brain-dead game in a billionaire’s playpen in a monsoon while around them, the city reaches population zero. If the Angra have a sense of humor they won’t be able to invade. They’ll laugh themselves stupid and wait for us to die off pretending that nothing is wrong.

      [Chapter 8]

      I STEP THROUGH a shadow and come out in front of Bamboo House of Dolls. It’s my Sistine Chapel. My home away from home. The best bar in L.A. The first bar I walked into after escaping from Hell. It’s a punk tiki joint. Old Germs, Circle Jerks, Iggy and the Stooges posters on the wall. Plastic palm trees and hula girls around the liquor bottles. And there’s Carlos, the bartender, mixing drinks in a Hawaiian shirt. On the jukebox, Martin Denny is playing an exotic palm-tree version of “Winter Wonderland.”

      It’s

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