“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 a new name and a new face courtesy of a powerful glamour. I have to give him points for being discreet enough, even though we’re alone, to use her cover name.
“I was heading to her office after the meeting. I’ll give it to her then.”
Abbot’s face relaxes. I hadn’t registered the worry until it wasn’t there anymore. I also notice that he’s gone far out of his way to not say who his friend is.
“Thank you. That means a lot to us.”
Okay. The friend is someone close, not just one of the council members trying to hide a family scandal. So, who is it? A childhood pal? A lover? Is Abbot married? I can’t see his ring finger, but that’s also a pretty Judeo-Christian tradition—not so much among the Sub Rosa types.
I focus back on the missing child.
“How many times has this kid run off? He looks like he’s maybe twelve.”
Abbot picks up the picture, looks at it, and sets it down again.
“Yes. He’s always been precocious. With luck, this is nothing. But there’s some worry that his father might have abducted him.”
I flip the picture over. There’s information on the back. Eye color. Hair. Height. The only contact number is Abbot’s. I close the folder and put it in my coat pocket.
“I’ll give it to Julie. She runs the agency and decides who gets what cases.”
“That’s great.”
“So, what time are we doing this charity vote thing tomorrow?”
Abbot laughs.
“Stark, it’s Friday. We don’t meet again until Monday. Take the weekend. Get your head fixed.”
“Right. Friday. How about that?”
Where the hell did this week go? I swear, it was Tuesday just yesterday.
“Okay, then. I’ll see you next week, boss.”
“See you Monday,” says Abbot.
I leave and walk back to the dock as sunset comes down over the docks. From here, Abbot’s floating Xanadu looks like a burned-out garbage scow. Sub Rosa chic. They love their mansions to look like ten-week-old shit from the outside.
One okay thing about being on the council is that I get a stipend (and apparently an expense account—really need to look at that packet Abbot talked about). Since I can’t use the Room of Thirteen Doors anymore, and since the last car I borrowed got burned by a psycho named Audsley Ishii, I got one of my own. A black ’68 Pontiac Catalina fastback. Actually bought it. Inside, the previous owner put a rebuilt 455 V-8 under the hood. Outside, it looks like a hearse and a cruise missile had a bullet-nosed baby. I get in, turn the key, and make the monster roar.
THE DRIVE FROM Marina del Rey to Hollywood isn’t as hideous as it could be. The 405 tonight is a plodding lava flow instead of a graveyard. Abbot’s gerbil-food pill tuned down my headache, but the headlights on other cars still hurt my eyes. I can’t believe I almost missed Friday. My head will be shaken back into place soon enough. I swear, having a job is half of what’s wrong with me.
I never liked being an employee. I tried it before. Signed on with the Golden Vigil—basically, a government antihoodoo spook force. It didn’t work out. The bosses—Larson Wells in particular—and I didn’t exactly get along (I fought the law and the law won). Then they threw Candy in jail and would have shipped her to a Lurker Alcatraz in the desert if I didn’t get help from a friend. Then they screwed me out of my paycheck. Then I tried playing private detective.
Don’t bother asking how that worked out.
Even though the council gig is a pretty cushy job, being a salaryman grates on me in a very basic way. It reminds me of working for Azazel, a Hellion bigwig Downtown. The relationship was simple: he was the boss and I was his slave. Pull the plow or get sent to the glue factory. This job isn’t as bad as that by a long shot, but being under the thumb of anyone who can burn down your life with a phone call makes me, let’s say, uneasy. Maybe that’s why my sleep has been shit.
I can’t help wondering what Abbot does and who he talks to when I’m not there. Does he discuss me with whoever his personal friends and advisers are? No, that’s not really in doubt—of course he does. The question is what he says and why. I mean, he’s the augur. He’ll play whatever angles he needs to stay who he is. That means he’ll use me against the blue bloods, the blue bloods against me, then he’ll turn around and use us all against each other. None of this automatically makes him a bad guy, just a politician. For now, I’m going to assume he’s on the level with me. But if I get one whiff of nefarious unpleasantness, I’ll dump him in one of the open graves in Teddy Osterberg’s cemetery collection in Malibu and bury him alive.
Right now, though, I need to get off the road as soon as possible. The headache wants to come back down on me. It tightens the back of my skull like an anaconda wrapped around my head. But Abbot’s flower-power pills keep it at bay. I just need it to work for another hour or so. Then, depending on how things shape up, I’ll go to Allegra’s clinic or the other place.