Charlie was surprised to see a few people at the funeral whom he knew, and each time he walked away from one, he’d run into another.
First Inspector Rivera, who lied. “Had to come. It’s our case. I’ve gotten to know the family a little.”
Then Ray, who lied. “She went to my gym. I just thought I should pay my respects.”
Then Rivera’s partner, Cavuto, who didn’t lie. “I still think you’re kinky, and that goes for your ex-cop friend, too.”
And Lily, who was also honest. “I wanted to see a dead fuck puppet.”
“Who’s running the store?” Charlie asked.
“Closed. Death in the family. You know Ray called the cops on you, right?”
They hadn’t had a chance to talk since Charlie had been released. “I should’ve figured,” Charlie said.
“He said he saw you go into the dead chick’s building and just disappear. He thinks you have ninja powers. That part of the thing?” She bounced her eyebrows—a Groucho Marx conspiracy bounce—made less effective by the fact that her eyebrows were pencil thin and drawn on in magenta.
“Yeah, it’s kind of part of the thing. Ray doesn’t suspect about the thing, does he?”
“No, I covered for you. But he still thinks you might be a serial killer.”
“I thought he might be a serial killer.”
Lily shuddered. “God, you guys need to get laid.”
“True, but right now I’m here to do a thing regarding the thing.”
“You still haven’t gotten her thing thing?”
“I can’t even figure out how to get it. Her thing is still in the thing.” He nodded to the casket.
“You’re fucked,” Lily said.
“We have to go sit now,” Charlie said. He led her into the chapel, where the service was beginning.
Behind him Nick Cavuto, who had been standing three feet away with his back to Charlie, made a beeline for his partner and said, “Can we just shoot Asher and find cause later? I’m sure the fucker’s done something to deserve it.”
Charlie didn’t know what he was going to do, how he was going to retrieve the soul implants, but he really thought something would occur to him. Some supernatural ability would manifest itself at the last minute. He thought that all through the ceremony. He thought that when they closed the casket, during the funeral procession to the cemetery, and all through the graveside ceremony. He began to lose hope as the mourners dispersed and the casket was lowered, and by the time the ground crew started throwing dirt down the hole with a backhoe, he’d pretty much given up on having an idea.
There was grave robbing, but that really wasn’t an idea, was it? And even with his years of experience in the death-dealing business, Charlie didn’t think he was up for breaking into a cemetery, spending all night digging up a casket, then cutting the implants out of a dead woman’s body. It wasn’t the same as swiping a vase off the mantel. Why couldn’t Madison McKerny’s soul be in a vase on the mantel?
“Didn’t get the thing, then,” said a voice beside him.
Charlie turned to see Inspector Rivera standing not a foot away. He hadn’t even seen him since they’d left the funeral home.
“What thing?”
“Yeah, what thing?” Rivera said. “They didn’t bury her with those diamonds you saw, you know that, right?”
“That would have been a shame,” Charlie said.
“Sisters got them,” Rivera said. “You know, Charlie, most people don’t stay to watch them actually cover the box.”
“Really?” Charlie said. “I was just curious. See if they used shovels or what. How about you?”
“Me? I’m watching you. You ever get over that thing with the storm sewers?”
“Oh, that? I just needed a little adjustment in my medication.” It was an expression that Charlie had picked up from Jane. She wasn’t actually on medication, but the excuse seemed to work for her.
“Well, you keep an eye on that, Charlie. And I’ll keep an eye on you. Adios.” Rivera walked off.
“Adios, Inspector,” Charlie said. “Hey, by the way, nice suit.”
“Thanks, I bought it from your store,” Rivera said without turning around.
When was he in my store? Charlie thought.
For the next couple of weeks Charlie felt as if someone had dialed his nervous system up past the recommended voltage and he was nearly vibrating with anxiety. He thought that perhaps he should call Minty Fresh, warn him of his failure to retrieve Madison McKerney’s soul vessel, but if the sewer harpies weren’t rising because of that, maybe the contact with another Death Merchant would put them over the top. Instead he kept Sophie home and made sure that she was never out of sight of the hellhounds. In fact, he kept the hellhounds locked in her room most of the time; otherwise they kept dragging him to his day planner, which had no new names. Only the overdue Madison McKerny and the two women—Esther Johnson and Irena Posokovanovich—who had appeared on the same day, but still had some time left before expiration—or whatever you called it.
So he started his walks again, listening as he passed storm drains and manhole covers, but the darkness didn’t appear to be rising.
Charlie felt naked walking the street without his sword-cane, which Rivera had kept, so he set out to replace it, and in the process found two more Death Merchants in the city. He found the first at a used-book store in the Mission, Book ’em Danno. Well, it wasn’t really a bookstore anymore—it still had a couple of tall cases of books, but the rest of the store was a bricolage of bric-a-brac, from plumbing fittings to football helmets. Charlie understood completely how it happened. You started with a bookstore, then you made a single innocent trade, a set of bookends for a first edition maybe, then another, you picked up a grab-all box at a yard sale to get one item—pretty soon you had a whole section of unmatched crutches and obsolete radio tubes, and couldn’t for the life of you remember how you’d acquired a bear trap, yet there it was, next to the lime-green tutu and the Armadrillo penis pump: secondhand out of hand. In the back of the store, by the counter, stood a bookcase in which every volume was pulsing with a dull red light.
Charlie tripped over a spittoon and caught himself on an elk-antler coatrack.
“You okay?” asked the proprietor, looking up from the book he was reading. He was maybe sixty, skin spotted from too much sun, but he hadn’t seen any in a while and he’d gone pasty. He had long, thinning gray hair and wore oversized bifocals that gave him the look of an educated turtle.
“No, I’m fine,” Charlie said, ripping his gaze off the soul-vessel books.
“I know it’s a little cluttered in here,” the turtle guy said. “I’ve been meaning to clear it out, but then, I’ve been meaning to clear it out for thirty years and I haven’t managed it yet.”
“It’s okay, I like your store,” Charlie said. “Great selection.”
The owner looked at Charlie’s expensive suit and shoes and squinted. It was clear he recognized the worth of the clothes and was qualifying Charlie as a rich collector or antiques hunter. “You looking for anything special?” he asked.
“Sword-cane,” Charlie said. “Doesn’t have to be antique.” He wanted to buy this guy a coffee and share stories of snatching soul objects, of confronting the Underworlders, of being a Death Merchant. This guy was a kindred spirit, and from the size of his collection of soul objects, all of them books, he’d been doing this longer than Minty Fresh.
Turtle guy shook his head. “Haven’t seen one for years. If you want to give me a card, I’ll put out feelers for you.”