She shifts her weight a little nervously.
“Actually, that stuff isn’t really free.”
“How much is it?”
She pushes the thousand back to me.
“Sit down over there. I get off in fifteen minutes.”
“Anything for free donuts.”
“If you finish your coffee, come back for more.”
“Great. I’ll be over there.”
I drink the good coffee and eat my fritter. Janet is a little odd, but the last week has been pretty fucking odd— with dying, not dying, burning up, not burning up, going back Downtown for a few minutes, and being a cling-wrap mummy—so why not end it that way?
What the hell am I going to do with my life? I think going part-time at Max Overdrive is probably out of the question, so what else is there? I could go back to work for Abbot, but that’s eventually going to lead to more monsters and I’m going to try to avoid them for now.
I should call Allegra and talk to her about PTSD stuff. But no yoga or soy burgers.
Maybe Carlos needs a barback at Bamboo House. But not on necromancer night. Never on necromancer night.
The UFO mansion is kind of big and empty to be there all the time alone. Candy and Alessa have music night at Max Overdrive. Maybe I could have movie nights at my place. Or is that too pathetic and obvious? I’m not twenty anymore. Of course, when I was twenty I was Downtown fighting bugeyed fuckwits in the arena. Maybe I get to do some twenty-year-old things? I’ll think about it.
“Mind if I join you?”
Marshal Wells slips into the booth across from me. He smiles and clasps his hands together.
“You’re looking good, James. What is your secret?”
“Lots of greens. Prayer. Faith in the baby Jesus.”
Wells unclasps his hands.
“You see? I try to approach you in a calm and respectful manner and you resort to cheap blasphemy.”
“I didn’t think it was cheap. It felt just about right to me.”
He doesn’t talk for a minute. Just looks me over.
Eventually he says, “Who did you sell your soul to this time?”
“You’re talking about my miraculous resurrection?”
“You look better than even before you were a moldering piece of human garbage.”
I eat a piece of my fritter.
“There weren’t any demon deals or satanic payoffs. Just good old American know-how.”
“You’re what that circus at the drive-in was about,” says Wells.
I rap my knuckles on the table once.
“It was great. You ought to try it. Treat yourself to a spa day.”
“No thank you. I have more important fish to fry. Which reminds me. Don’t worry about your friend Marcella’s future in the Vigil. I executed her.”