“Look, Mike gets your legs working, you can come down to Bamboo House of Dolls and ask her yourself. Maybe she’ll say yes just for the novelty of doing a robot.”
“I think she might be seeing someone,” says Candy.
“Who?” says Kasabian.
“The King of Candy Land. Or was it Josie and the Pussycats?”
“Great. Now she gets discreet. Forget it. Chicks only want one monster in their life and Stark got to Brigitte first.”
Mike stops working and Kasabian tries to stand. This time he makes it. His legs support him and he takes a few steps like, well, a circus dog doing a trick for biscuits.
I say, “You know, no matter how well you make his arms and legs work, he still looks like a mutt.”
Mike sighs and nods.
“To rework his whole body so it’s more human shaped, I’d have to cut it up with a plasma torch, lengthen and straighten his back legs, redo the spine, and rebalance and recalibrate the whole thing,” he says. “The only way to do that is for Kasabian to get off it.”
I look at Kasabian, walking steady for the first time since I’ve been back.
“Maybe he’s right. Maybe you should go back to your skateboard for a while and let Mike do his thing.”
Kasabian looks panicked. He stumbles back against his desk, his hound legs giving way.
“No way anyone is chopping up this body. I looked like a fucking bug on that skateboard. Now at least I’m mammal shaped.”
“I’ve got all your limbs working right for the moment,” says Mike. “Maybe there’s some way I can do your legs without taking them off.”
Kasabian sits down and slaps his computer keyboard. The screen lights up.
“Yeah. You work on that. Right now let me get back to work building my site.”
As Mike packs up his tools he looks at me.
“I’m not getting my soul back, am I?”
“Not today, Mike. But keep up the good work. You’re closing in on daylight.”
I head into the big bedroom Candy and I share. Samael’s old clothes still hang in the closet. Custom shirts and suits so sharp they could cut you like a knife. I toss my jeans and T-shirt on the bed and change into a bloodred button-down shirt and black silk trousers.
Candy follows me in and sits on the bed.
I say, “Why don’t you stay here and see if Kasabian can pull up any information on Moseley when he was alive.”
Candy doesn’t move.
“I know you’re not dressing up for me, so who’s the lucky girl?” she says.
I comb my hair in the bedroom mirror. It doesn’t help much. The neater I get my hair, the worse it makes the scars on my face look. There are donut crumbs on the glove that covers my prosthetic left hand, so I toss the glove onto a pile of dirty clothes and put on a clean one.
“Brigitte was there when the Qomrama disappeared, but even if she wasn’t, I bet she’s not the one sending hit men after me.”
“Then who is?”
“I don’t know. But there were only two other people there when Aelita took the 8 Ball. Saragossa Blackburn and his wife. So, I’m off to see the wonderful Wizard of Oz.”
THE SUB ROSA is the underground magic community that keeps the old practices alive and secretly runs a few pieces of the world. Saragossa Blackburn is our Augur, the president and holy high chieftain of the entire Sub Rosa freak squad in California. There’s no one bigger. With his heavy money Illuminati of politicians, corporate honchos, bankers, entertainment-industry lackeys, and law enforcement creeps, he’s the power behind the power, and when we don’t have a Sub Rosa governor running the state, Blackburn makes sure that Mr. or Ms. Civilian knows who’s really calling the shots.
He’s a scryer, a seer who gets glimpses of the future. All Augurs are scryers and Blackburn is supposed to be a good one. On the other hand, he didn’t see me coming the last time I paid him a visit, but I was still Lucifer back then. Now that I’m just another asshole, chances are he has me right on his radar.
And here comes the proof. Men in shades and dark Brooks Brothers suits pile out of a line of blacked-out vans. The last time I dropped by, Blackburn was so sure of his untouchability that he didn’t bother with security guards. He had enough wards and hoodoo mantraps around the place to hold off King Kong but not the Devil.
I don’t like this. It feels too much like the bullshit I had to put up with when I worked for Larson Wells and his holy brown shirt army, the Golden Vigil.
A marine type with a blond crew cut and steroid shoulders the size of baby bulls puts his hand up.
“Excuse me, sir. Do you have an appointment?”
It’s not the “excuse me” part that gets under my skin. It’s the “sir.” Procedures. Protocol. They’re all civilized masks for contempt. I can deal with that, but I like my hate straight and up front. And these boys radiate hate like Tijuana blacktop in August. They know who I am and that I put a massive hurt on the last bunch of Sub Rosa security goons that braced me like this.
But I learned a bit of the protocol dance myself when I was playing Lucifer. Sometimes civilized is the best play. The feint they’re not expecting. Besides, I’m decked out in silk and shiny shoes like Louis the Sun King’s jester. Unless I crack someone’s head and eat their brains, I couldn’t scare a Brownie.
“I’m here to see the Augur. My name is James Stark.”
“Yes, sir. Do you have an appointment?”
“No, but if you tell Blackburn I’m here, I’m sure he’ll see me.”
Mr. Shoulders smiles.
“The Augur is a busy man. If you call his secretary and make an appointment, we’ll be happy to make sure you get inside. I can give you his secretary’s phone number.”
“Yeah. You see, I kind of saved his wife’s soul, so he owes me a favor. Plus, someone tried to shoot me today, so I’d like to see the Augur right fucking now, pretty please with ice cream on top.”
This is what Shoulders and his friends have been waiting for. An excuse. His heartbeat is going up. Microtremors in his face and hands are sure signs he’s waiting for me to make a move. And if I don’t do something soon, he’s going to work himself up to where he’ll make a move for me.
A few months ago I would already have had half of these merc fuckwits on their backs, bleeding and crying for their mommies. But I’m trying to cool some of that these days. Go with the advice Wild Bill Hickok gave men in Hell and pick and choose my fights.
“I’d really appreciate it if one of you gentlemen could call the house for me,” I say. I follow it with a big, sunny smile.
Shoulders
