“Thanks. But I’m afraid I’ll spill my drink on it.”
“Of course,” he says, disappointed I didn’t want to be dazzled by his family roots.
“In any case,” he says, “I’ve sent a particularly interesting book to the Golden Vigil. I understand they have an actual Buddhist priest helping with them with research.”
“They do.”
“You could have knocked me over with a feather when I heard that those old fundamentalists were consorting with Eastern heathens,” says Tuatha. When she smiles there are lines at the corners of her eyes. I like that unlike a lot of Sub Rosa elite, she’s not trying to glamour away her age. “Have you met him? What’s he like? I’ve heard those old monks can be quite the pranksters. Fun workmates.”
“ ‘Fun’ isn’t the word I’d use. And I haven’t worked with him much, so I don’t know how good he is. Wells seems to think he’s the bees’ knees.”
“You must tell me more about him the next time you come by,” says Tuatha.
“I’m coming back?”
“I hope so,” says Blackburn. “I offered you the job of my security chief before and I’d hoped that since then you’d reconsidered it.”
“Actually, I hadn’t. Listen, I was bodyguard for the first Lucifer and was lousy at it. I’m not being modest. I got us ambushed and him cut up. I’m good at hitting things, not keeping things from getting hit.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
I finish my whiskey and start to set down the glass. Blackburn smoothly slides a coaster under it before it touches down.
“You’re a scryer. Shouldn’t you know I was going to say no?”
He shakes his head.
“It doesn’t work like that. I see probabilities, some more likely and some less. In a case like you, where someone has to make a yes-or-no choice, I see both outcomes and some of the consequences of each decision.”
“So, no lottery numbers, then?”
“Actually, he’s very good at lottery numbers,” says Tuatha.
“But I’m not going to give you any,” he adds.
“See? The rich are no fun. They get everything and then wag their fingers at us proles for wanting a taste.”
“Is that why you won’t take the job? I never took you for a Marxist. A Situationist, perhaps.”
“I don’t know what any of those words mean. And I’m not going to argue about it. A politician like you, you’ll have me convinced I wanted the job, that it was my idea, and that I wanted to be paid in candy corn.”
“There’s nothing I can offer you to change your mind?”
“It’s nothing personal. I have a job to do, even if I have to do it with the Vigil. A friend died looking for the Qomrama. I’m not going to let that happen again.”
Tuatha stands up and goes around to the back of the desk.
“My husband is afraid, Mr. Stark. He won’t say it. He’s seen dark days ahead, for the Sub Rosa and for us personally. Please reconsider.”
“You have a whole army outside and you can get a bigger one. Talk to Wells. He doesn’t like us pixies, but I bet he’d send people to protect the Augur.”
Tuatha looks at Blackburn.
“That might not be a bad idea. And it will give Mr. Stark—excuse me, Stark, a chance to think things over.”
To Tuatha I say, “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“All this rain. Do you have something to do with it?”
She cocks her head to the side like she’s telling a kid there are no monsters under the bed.
“That’s a common misconception about the art of brontomancy. I’m a thunder worker,” she says, and looks up as a monstrous clap of thunder rattles the windows. “I use thunder and even lightning for purposes of divination and spell casting. Brontomancers don’t have anything to do with rain.”
Her heart and breathing are steady. She’s telling the truth too. These people are no fun.
“Do you know any rain workers who might be doing this?”
“Believe me, I’ve asked,” she says. “I’ve even offered a reward to anyone who can tell me who or what is causing it.”
“Okay. You’ll let me know if you hear anything?”
“Of course.”
“If you won’t work for me now, maybe you will when this matter is settled?” says Blackburn.
“If we make it, I’ll think about it.”
Blackburn stands. He and Tuatha come around the desk.
He says, “I have every confidence that you and Marshal Wells will get us through this.”
“I wouldn’t put too much money on that horse.”
“You don’t think Marshal Wells is confident?”
We start walking to the front door.
“Wells is a believer. In God and the feds. He’s morally obligated to believe that we can win. But I don’t think he’s any more confident than I am.”
Tuatha says, “You saved me once. You can do it again.”
“Why not? There’s not much else to do in L.A. these days.”
Blackburn and Tuatha shake my hand and a second later I’m back in front of the ruined building with the moist, surly guards.
I head for the bike, but Ishii gets in front and stops me.
“Just a minute,” he says, and we stand there in the rain like a couple of dummies.
“Are we waiting for something?”
“A phone call,” he says. “Telling me you misbehaved.”
“I was a perfect gentleman. Freddie Bartholomew in Little Lord Fauntleroy.”
He keeps his hand up between us.
“We’ll know in a few seconds,” he says.
His crew stays put, trying to keep out of the rain, but ready to move when the ringmaster says “jump.”
Ishii’s phone doesn’t ring. He looks more disappointed than a tiger at a vegan luau.
He hooks a thumb over his shoulder.
“You know, one of these times you’re going to show up and there’s going to be an accident,” he says. “It won’t be anyone’s fault. Shit just happens sometimes, right?”
I get on the Hellion hog and kick it into life. It roars and the water around us steams.
“You’re right,” I say. “Here’s some shit that just happened. Your boss offered me your job.”
I pop the clutch and haul out of there before Ishii can say or, more importantly, do, anything.
It’s nice to be wanted, but it’s unsettling to see the boss of bosses rattled. As much as the mansion-on-the-hill crowd bugs me, it’s weird seeing them actually scared. You want them dumb and arrogant. When they’re scared it means that however bad you thought things were, they’re worse.
I TAKE BACK streets all the way home. A lot of street- and stoplights are out, drowned in the endless rain. Whole neighborhoods—almost the entire length of Franklin Street—are dark. No lights on in the houses. No cars on the street or in driveways. The city really is emptying its guts onto the freeways. I wonder how many of us there will be left in the end. And who’s going to be top of the food chain? Civilians, Sub Rosas, or Lurkers? I can deal with any kind of supernatural asshole playing King of the Hill, but civilians make me nervous. In times of stress they tend to grab pitchforks and torches. I don’t know how many staying behind even know about L.A.’s hoodoo world, but based on history, I hope it’s not many.
When I get to Max Overdrive, I park the Hellion hog around the side and let it sit for a while to cool off. If I throw the cover on now, it’s likely to melt.
As I walk inside, I’m hit with a blast of noise that makes my ears ring. It’s like a 747 having rough sex with a skyscraper on a pile of exploding transformers. The sound doesn’t let up, but settles into a steady beat. Steady enough that I can identify it as a warped version of a song. “Ace of Spades.” Candy is practicing guitar again.
“Tell me again why we built her a soundproof practice room?” says Kasabian. He’d like to stick his fingers in his ears, but they’re modified hellhound paws and ungraceful enough he’d probably put an eye out if he got them near his head.