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don’t get migraines. I leap tall buildings in a single bound.”

      Abbot gets up and looks through an expensive leather messenger bag.

      “Let me give you my doctor’s name. He does great work. You’re aware, aren’t you, that as a council member you get health insurance?”

      “I do?”

      “It was in the packet I gave you when you started.”

      “You gave me a packet?”

      He comes back over with something in his hand.

      “Maybe you lost it at home. Look for it. You even have a small expense account.”

      He puts a business card on the table. It has a doctor’s name on it.

      “Free money? I’ll find it. And thanks for the advice, but I have my own doctor.”

      “Then go see him or her. Doctors are like aspirin. They don’t work if you don’t use them.”

      “Speaking of aspirin, you have any?”

      There’s something else in his hand. He sets down a small yellow prescription bottle.

      “Aspirin won’t do much for a migraine. But you should try these. I get headaches myself and these clear them right up.”

      “Your doctor’s Sub Rosa?”

      “Of course. Why do you ask?”

      “I don’t know. You’re one of the moneyed chosen. I always pictured you with your own hospital or something.”

      He smiles.

      “Just one wing. It’s all Dad could afford.”

      I look at him.

      “I’m kidding,” he says.

      “Just give me the pills, Groucho.”

      He hands me the bottle and points to the glass of water that’s been in front of me the whole meeting. If it had been a snake, I’d be taking a venom nap by now.

      I pop the pills in my mouth. They taste like flowers. Like one of those goddamn violet candy bars my mother used to gnaw on with her whiskey. Very classy. Very sophisticated. I want to spit them out, then remember they’re medicine, so I don’t. Abbot pushes the water to me and I take a long gulp.

      “How was that?”

      I finish the glass.

      “It tastes like the wreaths at a mobster’s funeral.”

      He puts the cap back on the prescription bottle.

      “It does, doesn’t it? Anyway, you should feel better in a few minutes. I can give you a few extra if you’d like to take them with you.”

      “Thanks. But I’ll bug my doctor for something that doesn’t taste like a hobbit’s lunch.”

      “Suit yourself. But if you change your mind …”

      “Thanks. But I won’t.”

      Listen to yourself. Stop whining. This is your boss you’re talking to. He’s given you free drugs and is offering more. That’s what people do when they see someone in pain. Shut up. Be a person.

      “I feel better already.”

      Abbot gets up, tosses the bottle in the messenger bag, and brings it back to the table.

      “I doubt that,” he says, “but you will. Is your head clear enough to talk? I want to discuss something with you.”

      “Is this the part where you chew me out for being bad in class?”

      “No. I understand how awful migraines can be. But tell me next time and maybe we can do something about it. No, I wanted to talk to you about the real agenda for the meeting.”

      “Going to dish about your rich friends? What do you tell them about me?”

      He sits back down.

      “Nothing. But trust me, they ask. What I want to talk about is the real reason for the meeting. Did you hear anything I said tonight?”

      “Something about charities. Climate change. The end of the world.”

      “You’re right about the charities part. What I wanted to see was who was pushing for which charities. I think some of the board members are in bed with Wormwood.”

      Wormwood Investments. What can I say about that bunch? They’re into money and power. And they have a good time getting and keeping both.

      Charity doesn’t really seem to be their thing, though, so I try to get my mind wrapped around that.

      “You think that dicking around with charities will tell you which ones are on the take?”

      Wormwood is like a mob-run bank if the mob was a Hellion horde and the bank was the world. They make money when the market goes up and currencies collapse. They make money on where and when famines kill the most people. They make money on who is or isn’t damned.

      And they make money on me.

      Who I kill. Who I don’t. Whether I’m a good boy or a bad boy, they make a profit, and it pisses me off.

      “Wormwood has a lot of front groups,” says Abbot.

      It clicks. “And the council can funnel to them through the charity fronts.”

      “Exactly.”

      “So, you want to see who recommends which ones.”

      “You’ve got it.”

      Another wave of pain gets me just behind my left eye. I close it and squint at Abbot through the right like I’m doing my best Popeye impression.

      “Did you find out anything?” I ask.

      “Maybe. I made sure everyone knew there was money to be spent. We batted around the names of a few groups, including two that I know have Wormwood connections. The next meeting we’ll vote and see who pushes for which groups.”

      “How diabolical of you.”

      “Thanks. I’m flattered.”

      The wave of pain passes and I can use both eyes again. I get up and go around the table to where there’s another full glass of water and drink most of it.

      “Listen. I know a guy—Manimal Mike—with a lot of power tools. Why don’t you point me at some of the shifty types on the council and I’ll show them Mike’s saws?”

      Abbot raises an eyebrow before saying, “I’d need some proof before I’d let someone called Manimal Mike loose on anyone.”

      “Point me at the Wormwood creeps and I’ll make them sing La fucking Traviata.”

      “I hope it won’t come to that.”

      “If it’s Wormwood, it will.”

      “You might be right.”

      I sit back down again and the light in the room stops strobing.

      “Hey. I think your hamster food is starting to do something.”

      “See? I told you so.” He pauses. “There’s one more thing I wanted to talk to you about.”

      He reaches into his bag and pulls out a white folder. He opens it on the table. There’s a photo of a young boy.

      “A friend’s son has gone missing. His name is Nick. He’s run away before. Mostly to his father’s house in San Diego. Everyone was assuming that’s what had happened this time, but my friend hasn’t heard anything and is worried. I remember that your lady friend, Chihiro, works for a detective agency. Do you think she could look into it for me?”

      Abbot knows damn well that Chihiro is really Candy living with

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