He dropped the phone.
I couldn’t help myself. I laughed.
“Yeah, yeah. Ha ha ha.” He was practically snarling when he came back on the line. “What are you looking for?”
“A client is going to be attacked with a blood curse on the full moon. I know there has to be a way to duck the spell—I’ve met someone who survived one. But he won’t tell me how he did it. I was wondering if a blood transfusion would work, make it so the bio sample wouldn’t find her.”
There was a long silence during which all I could hear was his breathing and the scratch of a pen on paper. Finally, he grudgingly admitted, “It might work.”
“Would it have to be a full transfusion?”
“Not by my calculations, but more than half.”
“How much would it cost?”
“I’ll need to run some figures. I’ll need to get blood from the patient so I can type and screen it and find a suitable match. Then rent the equipment and find enough blood—we’ll need six or more pints, depending on the client’s weight. It won’t be cheap.”
“The client was hospitalized recently. Can you get the blood type information from the hospital records?”
“Not unless you can get me a signed release.”
“I can probably get one from the client.” I wondered if Fred’s house had a fax machine. If it did, I’d have Dawna fax over a release for Michelle to sign and fax back. Maybe get a written commitment to paying our bill while she was at it—Abigail had promised we’d be paid, but she was dead. Michelle had to be the one to sign the checks. And hiring the Company would not come cheap. I was hoping for a “friends and family” rate, but I wasn’t family and apparently we were no longer friends. That hurt worse than expected. It also pissed me off.
“Fine. I’ll check with the mages to be sure we’re on the right track, run some figures, and get back to you. Now put Dawna on the line.”
“I can’t, she’s not here.”
“She’s not with you?”
“Nope.”
“Well, that’s something, anyway,” he replied and hung up.
I punched the button to end the conversation with more force than was really necessary.
Since I was already in a foul mood, I decided I might as well call Gwen. I’d missed a couple of appointments and I was sure she’d want to lecture me and talk to me about my family. That was bound to make my day. Not. After that, if I didn’t feel bad enough, I could sit in traffic calling all the other people who were angry with me and liable to be nasty.
Stop it, Graves. People get mad. They also get over it. How pissed were you at Kevin a couple of years ago? Now you’re his boss and the two of you are doing fine. Just give things time. Of course that was easier said than done, and it did absolutely nothing to help me deal with the present.
I talked to Gwen, who wasn’t nearly as fierce as I’d expected her to be—then again, some of my flowers had come from her. I figured that maybe she was cutting me some slack since it was obvious I was in the middle of yet another of my infamous shit storms.
By the time I reached Los Angeles, the phone needed a recharge and I was seething with rage. I forced myself to go through the drive-through at a local PharMart to pick up some nutrition shakes, swallowing two out of the six-pack while I waited for my change. I didn’t trust myself to go inside.
On the other hand, this was the perfect mood to be in to go confront a bad guy. So, hey, not a total waste.
Only a few blocks farther and I was pulling up outside Finn Billiards. I’m not sure what I’d expected, but it wasn’t what I found. Jack’s place was in an upscale, mixed-use neighborhood. There were a couple of twelve-story office buildings across the way and a pub on the first floor directly below. It wasn’t quite time for the happy hour rush, but there were plenty of patrons inside, most wearing business suits. I caught a whiff of fries and burgers cooking even inside my vehicle. It took me a minute or two to find a free parking space.
I slathered on sunscreen, which looked odd given the faint glow my skin was putting off. The smell of coconut and aloe mixed in with the scents of food reminding me of beach parties with Gran and Grandpa when I was little. That made me smile—right up until I caught a glimpse of fangs in the rearview mirror.
I did a quick weapons check. I wasn’t completely happy with the result. I’ve got backup gear, and carrying it is better than going unarmed, but I wasn’t nearly as comfortable with it. Still, it’s all kept in good condition, so it was ready to use, just in case Jack wasn’t any happier to see me than his daddy had been.
The stairs leading up to the pool hall—were they still called pool halls? I wondered—were steep and narrow, but the lighting was good and there were sturdy handrails. Even so, they were nothing I’d attempt drunk. Then again, most of the really serious pool sharks I’ve known don’t drink much “on duty.” It messes with their game.
The temperature started to drop when I reached the midway point on the stairs. A cold breeze ruffled what was left of my hair. Frost began forming on the metal fittings that held the railing in place. My breath misted the air in front of me, and each time I inhaled I felt the sharp sensation of cold air biting against freezing nose hair.
A ghost. I bet I even knew which ghost.
“Hello, Abby,” I said cheerfully. “Glad you could join me.” The overhead light blinked once.
The staircase opened into a large room. A long, polished bar and an accompanying string of the usual black vinyl stools ran most of the length of the interior wall. Most of the rest of the room was taken up by billiard tables of various vintages and sizes, spaced far enough apart to allow ease of play. I spotted an antique snooker table in one corner. A pair of lights hung above each table, casting clear light onto the green felt surfaces with no distracting shadows. There were seats and tables placed at intervals around the room so that spectators could watch and order food and drink.
The décor was pleasant and clean and included movie posters from films like The Color of Money and The Hustler along with large autographed photos of champion billiards players from various eras.
There weren’t a lot of customers at this time of day, only a couple of die-hard types who looked like they’d been here awhile, judging by the backlog of glasses and half-eaten sandwiches on a table near where they played. They ignored me, intent on what was probably a high-stakes game.
Jack Finn stood behind the bar, drying a glass with a white towel. Instead of the suit he’d worn when we met the last time, he wore jeans and a polo shirt that was the exact color of the table felt, with an embroidered eight-ball rack on the left breast. He looked younger than he had in the suit but still older than the twentysomething I knew he must be.
“You,” he said, his tone almost identical to the one Chris had used. If this kept up, I might develop a complex.
“Me.” I smiled sunnily. I might have shown just a wee bit of fang. The temperature in the room dropped precipitously.
“What do you want?” He set down the glass, moving ever so casually to his left, where I assumed a weapon was concealed under the counter.
“Don’t,” I told him. “I’m not holding a grudge right now. I’m here to give you some advice.”
“Yeah, right.” But he stopped moving.
The guys at the pool table had looked up and were watching us very closely. They hadn’t moved this way, but I made sure to keep them in my peripheral vision. I know from painful experience that billiard balls and cue sticks make nasty weapons.
Behind Jack’s back a few of the glasses started levitating … just a little. I hoped Abby would give me a chance to talk to Jack before she went all poltergeist, but she might not. After all, odds were good he’d had all sorts of things to do with her getting tortured to death. She was probably just itching for a bit of payback.