"That lady sure existed," says Allegra. "Her face was more messed up than yours."
Vidocq says, "These people can hurt you."
"Let them try." I get up and go to the door. "Tell those Sub Rosa and their meter maids that they have three choices if they want me out of L.A. They can help me. They can stay out of my way. Or they can kill me."
Out in the hall a guy with two overflowing bags of groceries stops dead in his tracks, his key halfway to his door lock. With Vidocq's apartment being invisible to civilians, it must have looked like I appeared out of thin air.
"Oh. Hello," says the guy.
"Good-bye," I say, and disappear through a shadow right in front of him.
CARLOS HANDS ME a plate of rice, beans, and enchiladas in a thick mole sauce. I tear right into them. I'm starving after the fight, and Carlos's food is so good I want to marry it.
"You been doing your ninja thing again?" Carlos asks.
"What makes you say that?"
"One side of your face and your hands are all red, like a burn."
I look at my hands. They're scraped and raw-looking, like I've been juggling cinder blocks. "No big deal. They'll be fine by morning."
"I have aloe in the back if you want some."
I shake my head. "Thanks anyway. Another scar or two isn't going to ruin my pretty face."
"Right."
"Carlos, are you being polite? That's not what I come here for. I know I'm not Steve McQueen."
"My lady is totally in love with him. Lucky for me he's dead or I'd be in trouble."
I hold up my glass of Jack Daniel's in a toast. "Here's to all the guys better looking than us. May they all die first." Carlos picks up his glass, clinks mine, and we drink.
For the first time since I've had it, my cell phone rings. I don't even know what it is at first. It feels like a rat is having a nervous breakdown in the pocket of my hoodie. When I get it out, it takes me a second to remember which button to push to answer it.
"Hello?"
"Jimmy?"
"Who is this?"
"It's me. Cherry. I heard you were at the store. I didn't believe her."
"So, you called someone you didn't think was alive?"
"I called because if you were alive, I need your help."
I don't answer for a minute. I eat a forkful of enchilada.
"Jimmy?"
"Don't call me that. I don't like it."
"What should I call you?"
"The guy you helped send to Hell for eleven years of torture." I get up and walk over by the jukebox, speaking quietly. "The guy who is seriously thinking about redecorating the inside of that store of yours with your guts."
Now it's her turn to not talk.