When it feels like the circle is done, when the map is completely enclosed and I've loaded in every luck, hunting, and eavesdropping charm I can think of, I reach up for more junk off the table. A piece of string and some foil from a burrito wrapper. I wad up the foil and tie it to the bottom of the string, making a pendulum. Then I take my knife and slice across the palm of my left hand. Squeezing hard before the wound closes, I sprinkle blood around and inside the magic circle.
Hell doesn't run on prayers or promises. Downtown magic is about reaching out and grabbing what you want, and that requires payment. An offering. Blood. Black magic on Earth isn't so different and it's why so many dark magicians dress like cashiers at Hot Topic. Black is a good color anytime you're flinging around blood.
I start chanting, a free-form mix of Hellion and English, ordering whatever Lurkers, spirits, magical pinheads and old, forgotten gods who happen to be nearby to turn down The Price Is Right and listen up. Show me where Mason is. I paid you my blood, now give me what I want. I command you. Give me what you owe me. I have the key to all the doors in the universe. You don't want to even dream of cheating me.
The foil ball on the end of the string begins to move, making little circles where I hold it over the map. The movement becomes steady and strong, pulling my hand and my whole arm in circles, too. Then it stops. The foil slams onto the map like it's magnetized. I pull the pendulum away and look at where it landed. Just a little north of Hollywood Boulevard and Las Palmas, right on top of Max Overdrive.
Cute. I should have seen that one coming. Mason stuck a reversal gag on anyone stupid enough to look for him with magic.
On the floor, the map wads itself up and bursts into flame. A lick of fire reaches up like a burning claw and snatches the pendulum from my hand. Both the map and pendulum disintegrate into ashes and drift away on a breeze blowing in from some other part of Creation.
That was an Amateur Hour move. Now I know why Parker didn't go for me the night he took Kasabian. Why should he bother? I've proven that I'm dumb enough to walk into a bear trap marked with a big flashing neon sign that says warning: bear trap. I'm a killer who hasn't managed to kill anything. And it must be clear to everyone paying attention that I'm not Sam Spade. I don't know what I'm doing. I'm running on instinct and hunches.
Killing is a funny thing. Even if it's killing a Hellion general, one so psychotic that even other Hellions want him dead, the first time you commit murder, you're going to get sicker than you've ever been in your life and it's going to last for days. The second time you commit murder, you're going to get just as sick, but you're going to be over it the next day. The third time you commit murder, you change into that extra shirt you brought along, the one that's not covered in blood, and you go out for a drink. After that, killing doesn't feel like much of anything at all. Of course, I haven't killed a human yet. I'm not sure how I'm going to feel about it when the time comes.
Maybe it's not such a bad thing that Alice isn't here to see what I've become.
I sit down on the edge of the bed and pick up the magic box, roll it around in my hands, then set it back on the table. On the TV, some poor Indian has just died hauling Fitzcarraldo's boat over the mountain. The Indian's friends are gathered around his body, but Fitz is screaming for them to keep pulling his boat. He's the hero of the story and he's completely nuts. This isn't going to have a happy ending.
I lie down for a while, trying to get the kinks out of my back, but I'm too restless, so I walk over to the Bamboo House of Dolls. Carlos says hi, but I just sort of grunt at him. Being a good bartender, Carlos sees all and knows all. He brings me a double of Jack, along with some rice and beans with warm tortillas. Then he leaves me alone. The music isn't Martin Denny tonight. It's someone named Esquivel. It sounds like what James Bond's dentist must play in his waiting room. I try to relax, enjoy the food, and let the ludicrous sound wash around me. After two or three more drinks, Esquivel is really starting to grow on me.
When Carlos comes over to take away the empties, I ask, "What about me on a yacht in a white tux? Could I be James Bond's stunt double?"
Carlos takes the glasses away before he says, "Only if Bond fell into a wood chipper first."
He asks if I want another drink. I tell him I need a cigarette more and go outside and light up. It's around eight. Maybe nine. Ten's a possibility. Anyway, it's dark out. Time to get back to Vidocq's. I head for an alley across the street where I can slip unseen into a shadow. Halfway there, I spot a Ducati parked down the street. The twentysomething hipster TV producers love these sleek Euroracers, but like the Melrose Harley boys, it's mostly for show. The Ducati's tires are clean enough to eat off of. Doesn't anyone in this town actually ride their bike?
It'll be nice to feel some wind on my face. I take out the knife, jam it in the ignition, and I'm gone.
RULE ONE WHEN you get back from Hell and haven't ridden a high-performance in eleven years is not to get on the bike after three or five Jack Daniel's. Rule two is not to try a stoppie-grabbing just the front brake so that your rear end pops up. When you're drunker than you think you are, which is pretty much always, you're going to lean too far forward and pull the rear end of the bike up and over onto your dumb ass. Lucky for me, even six or seven sheets to the wind, I still have impressively inhuman reflexes, which means I can jump off the bike before it comes over and snaps my neck. The downside to jackrabbit reflexes is that while they get you out of the way of obvious and imminent danger, when you're going forty miles an hour on your front wheel, those reflexes will simply launch you into the air like a squirrel on a land mine.>When I piled it all on the bed, a small white box that had been stuffed in with the T-shirts fell out. When I opened it, I recognized the box instantly. It was that stupid magic-shop box with the hole in the bottom and the fake bloody cotton inside. The one she'd used to show me that she could do magic, too. I put the magic box in my pocket and the rest of her stuff back in the big box and carry it out into the living room.
Allegra and Vidocq are still taking inventory, but pause long enough to grin at me.
"Eugene says that I can be his apprentice and learn to be an alchemist."
"Congratulations. Just don't forget that we had a deal. I'm letting you into the other world, the Sub Rosa, but you still have to help me with a few things, too. And you can't abandon Max Overdrive. It may not be much, but it brings in money and, unless things changed while I was gone, that's what makes the world go round."
"I'll remember. We'll go out tomorrow and get you a phone."
"And the Internet. We need to get that, too."
"First thing, never say 'Get the Internet.' You sound like the Beverly Hillbillies. You 'use' the Internet or you 'access' it. You never 'get' it."
"See? That's why I hired you."
She turns to Vidocq. "Don't listen to him. He didn't hire me. I blackmailed his ass."
"Is this true?" he asks.
"Ignore her. She's schizophrenic and a pathological liar. I only let her work at the shop to keep her from swindling widows and orphans."
"You just can't handle the truth, can you?"
"And what's that?" I ask her.
"That I totally made you my bitch."
"See? Not a word of truth can pass her lips." I take the box with Alice's things and go to the door. "I don't know how long it'll take me to pay you for the Spiritus Dei."