Police and accident reports. Patient records from the last week.”
“Okay. Why do I care?”
“Because they all say the same thing: no one has died since right after Christmas. There are the same number of people with terminal illnesses, gunshot wounds, car accidents as always, and most of them should have died. But they haven’t.”
“Then what’s happening with them?”
“They’re in deep comas, with their vitals hovering just above death. Hospitals are full of them. Thousands. All over the world. No one is dying anywhere.”
“And you think this proves that the hobo I’m babysitting is Death.”
“You have another explanation?”
“Yeah. God is doing construction jobs in Heaven and Hell. Maybe He doesn’t want a busload of new kids getting in the way.”
“Then you think it’s a coincidence that at exactly the same time an injured man calling himself Death came to us—”
“Came to me.”
“Came to you, that people around the world stopped dying?”
I gulp my coffee, thinking. Trying to poke holes in her argument.
“I admit, the timing seems a little weird.”
“You’ve dealt with God and the Devil. Why is it so hard to admit that when Death has a problem he might come to you?”
I look back at the bar, wishing I’d taken that drink Carlos offered.
“Because I thought I was done with that stuff. The Angra Om Ya are gone. Mason Faim is gone. The Room of Thirteen Doors is gone. I hoped that part of my life might be over for a while and I could just be a boring PI. Hunt down insurance fraud and lost cats.”
Julie leans forward, her elbows on the table.
“And we’ll do those things, but we’re going to solve Death’s murder first.”
“You’re not getting it.”
“What am I not getting?”
I push the papers back across the table.
“This thing you want to get into, you’re screwing around with bad angelic hoodoo. And if this guy really is Death, whoever dragged him into a human body and cut his fucking heart out is into some of the heaviest, darkest baleful magic I’ve ever seen.”
Julie brightens, like a kid just remembering it’s her birthday.
“And that’s why it’s perfect for us. Look, it can take years for an investigations firm to build the kind of reputation it takes to bring in the big jobs. We might bypass all that with a single case.”
“Years? I should have stayed in the arena.”
“I guarantee if we solve this case, the kind of clients we’ll have, there’ll be plenty of money for you and Max Overdrive.”
I try to come up with an argument, but I can’t because she’s right. This is exactly the kind of case that would get the attention of every Sub Rosa, wealthy Lurker, and Beverly Hills magic groupie in California. Besides, Julie is ready to hand me money right now.
And there’s the other debt . . .
“All right. I’m in. Let’s do your Mike Hammer thing.”
She raises a bottle of light beer I missed behind all the papers. I click it with my coffee cup. There’s just one more question.
“So, we’re partners?”
She shakes her head.
“No way. I’m taking all the financial risks. It’s my company. You’re an employee.”
“But I get stock options and you’ll match my 401(k).”
“Tell yourself whatever story you need to get yourself out of bed, but as of now, you’re on the clock. Which means sticking to coffee during daylight hours.”
“You know how to suck all the fun out of being sober.”
“That’s a boss’s job.”
My coffee is getting cold, but I sip it anyway. It tastes lousy. I mean, it doesn’t taste any different than it did a minute ago, but knowing it’s my only drink of choice all day, every day . . . Let’s just say that the romance is over.
“I thought Chihiro would be here with you,” says Julie.
I turn and scan the room for familiar faces, but don’t find any.
“She’s out getting some new clothes and things. Since she got her new face, she’s been doing this bleach-blond kogal look. You know, Japanese schoolgirl drag. She was having fun, but I went through the plaid-skirt thing back with my old magic circle. A woman named Cherry Moon. She wanted to look like a junior high princess forever. After that, I don’t want anything to do with that Lolita stuff. So, she said she’d figure out something else.”
“Sounds like she likes you.”
“She just likes my movie collection.”
“I’m sure that’s what it is.”
A new song comes on the jukebox, a fifties cha-cha version of “Jingle Bells.” I’m going to have to speak to Carlos about how his Santa fetish is curdling his taste in music.
“I have some good news,” Julie says. “I think I found a real office. On Sunset, near Sanborn. It’s a little two-story building that used to have a dentist on the first floor and a telemarketing company on the second. The woman who owns it left when the floods started. There’s some water damage in the lobby, but it’s not bad and she has insurance. Best of all, after all the craziness, she doesn’t want to come back to L.A. and will sell me the whole place for a song.”
“That’s great. Congratulations.”
Julie smiles.
“I mean, it’s not much to look at. It’s between an El Pollo Loco and an empty garage, and across the street from a used car lot.”
“A car lot? That’s convenient. I’m going to need to steal a lot more cars now that I can’t shadow-walk anymore.”
“Don’t even think about it,” says Julie, suddenly serious.
“Fine. I’ll get around on a Vespa. See how much your clients like that.”
“Can’t you ride your motorcycle?”
“I brought it back from Hell. There’s no way it’s street legal and I’m not looking for any more run-ins with LAPD.”
“And you think stealing cars will help you avoid that?”
I’m
