Kasabian nods.
“Your boy Trevor’s last walk down the Yellow Brick Road was with an Angra cult. It was right there in front of you the whole time.”
“But I’ve only been going after tinhorn bad guys. I wouldn’t know where to begin looking for Angra worshippers.”
“Maybe you spooked them, running all over town pissing in everybody’s dream home.”
He puts the three photos side by side on the screen. The answer was in front of me the whole time. But it brings up another question. Why was a clockwork Trevor Moseley playing footsie with an Angra cult? Maybe the Trevor in the photo is real—I don’t know if an automaton can grow a beard—but now I’m surer than ever that the one that stepped in front of the bus wasn’t any more human than the ones we found with Atticus. It also explains why Samael didn’t see any sin sign on him. He wasn’t human, so technically nothing he did was sinful.
I light a Malediction.
“At least I’m getting through to someone. These gangsters are getting boring. By the way, don’t look for Trevor anymore. He’s not going to be in Hell.”
“Are you saying he’s in Heaven?”
“I’m saying he doesn’t have a soul.”
“Lucky duck.”
I puff the Malediction. Something bothers me.
“When did I send you the shot of Moseley?”
“You didn’t. I took it.”
“You hacked my phone?”
He looks up at me. His hellhound body whirs and clicks quietly when his head moves.
“You ask me to hack things and then you’re surprised when I do it? By the way, your idea of online security wouldn’t stop a mollusk with a TRS-80. If you ever want to get serious about protection, ask me.”
I want to be mad, but stealing the image did answer some important questions. And if I’m going to be pissing people off, maybe I ought to learn more about security.
“What’s going on with your swami gig? You ever track down that guy’s hoarder brother?”
“As a matter of fact I did. He’s with the misers and small-time grifters.”
“Good luck getting any information out of him. Brush up on your sign language.”
“I was going to ask you about that. Seeing as you’re pretty acquainted with Hell—”
“No. I won’t be your carrier pigeon.”
“This isn’t a favor, like you’re always asking me to do. It’s a business proposition. You’d get paid for taking messages back and forth.”
“I don’t think Mr. Muninn would like it.”
“Right. I forgot how sensitive you are to what other people think of you. Having fun breaking thumbs?”
I tap the ash of the Malediction into an empty bottle of champagne I don’t remember drinking.
“As a matter of fact I am. I might have to pencil in a rampage or two a year. It’s like going on vacation.”
“I remember your little moods every time I look down at where the rest of me used to be.”
“You’re the one that blew up your body. I just separated you from it.”
“Right. How uncool of me to be upset.”
Kasabian finishes off a can of beer sitting on his desk. Crushes it in his metal paw.
“You still have all that money you said you hid from Saint Stark?”
Saint Stark is my angelic half. He got loose a few months ago and went around L.A. doing good deeds and generally making himself a pain. Among his many good works was giving away most of the money a vampire collective, the Dark Eternal, gave me.
“If you want it, forget it. It’s still my insurance policy in case you decide to throw me out.”
“Jesus. I saved your sorry robo-dog ass from a hit squad and brought you to the best place you’ve ever lived and you’re still going on about that shit?”
“I’m sorry. Who was the one just talking about going on rampages?”
“I just want to make sure there’s some cash around.”
“You’re not getting it.”
“I don’t need it right now,” I say. “These gangsters keep bribing me not to kill them. I should have started shaking these people down a long time ago.”
“If you don’t want money, why are you asking about it?”
“Just sort of an inventory of assets.”
He turns around in his swivel chair and drops the beer can onto the top of an overflowing trash can.
“Shit. We’re not getting the boot, are we?”
“The hotel isn’t happy having a pig head on the porch swing, but no one has said anything. Yet.”
He turns back to his laptop. Slaps the keys hard and the photos disappear.
“Why couldn’t you be a nice, boring thief like Vidocq? No one ever bothers him.”
“He doesn’t steal that much anymore. And he’s good at it. I’m good at breaking things. The difference is that people don’t always notice when their diamonds go missing, but they know when their legs bend the wrong way.”
“Think about my offer. Make some honest money. You can probably do with some more friends Downtown.”
“You might be right about that part.”
On TV, a reporter is trying to interview a cop, but everyone behind them is pushing up their noses into pig snouts and grunting.
“One more thing. If you ever spot Medea Bava Downtown, let me know. She’s supposed to be hiding with Deumos, but I don’t trust the vindictive hag.”
“She’s the Inquisition. Even the milk on her cereal comes from angry cows.”
“Just let me know if you see her. And stay out of my phone.”
“Don’t worry. I didn’t see any of those private pictures Candy sent you.”
“Fuck you.”
THE HOUSE PHONE rings.
“Hello, Mr. Macheath?”
“Yes.”
“An envelope arrived for you. Should I send it up?”
“You mean an envelope envelope? I don’t want any packages.”
“No, sir. It’s just an envelope.”
“Okay. Send it up.”
I go out the grandfather clock and wait for the bellhop. He comes up in the elevator and gives me the note. I hand him a table lamp.
“My girlfriend has all the money and she’s asleep, but I think this lamp is Tiffany, so Merry Christmas.”
“Thank you, sir,” he says like this happens to him all the time.
I wait until he’s in the elevator before going back through the clock.
In the penthouse, I tear open the envelope. It’s heavy cream-colored paper and lined with thin gold foil. Very pricey. Inside, there’s a note containing three words:
Stop it.
Blackburn
Add him to the list of people who might have put up the nithing pole, though it’s not really his style. That means my game has gotten under the skin of at least two people. That just leaves four million to go.
I GET AN unexpected phone call and head for Bamboo House of Dolls. Go inside for a drink and wait. I drop Declan Garrett’s name a few times. Let people know I’m looking for him. What the hell? It’s worth a shot. Allegra shows up a few minutes later in a jean jacket over her scrubs, looking like she came straight from the clinic. I’m going to need a smoke for this. I head outside and she follows me.
We get to the end of the building by the alley. I light up and Allegra leans against the wall, arms and legs crossed. She’s nervous. So am I. We haven’t been alone together in months. Not since she found out I’d been playing Lucifer.
She says, “Thanks for meeting me.”
“No problem. So, what are we here for? Sorry if I’m blunt, but if you’re going to yell at me and call me evil, maybe you can get started? I hear there’s liquor inside.”
“If I just wanted to yell, I could’ve done that on the phone.”
She gives me a weak smile to say she’s joking, but I don’t smile back.
“I’m just trying to understand,” she says.
“Instead of telling me you have questions, why don’t you ask them?”
“Okay. You were really Lucifer? Tell me about it. What is Hell like?”
“Neither is what you think. Hell is a place like any other. I was mostly in the capital, Pandemonium. It’s a city just like this. Hellions live and work there. There are markets, bars, and restaurants. There are cops and armies. Even a church. The place is on its last legs. The new Lucifer is trying to put Humpty Dumpty back together again, but I don’t think he’ll make it.”