"I suppose," Honey said, cocking her head. "It would be an awfully big favor."

I groaned. "How much?"

"Room and board when I'm in Arcadia."

"Huh?"

"I get to live in your condo. And you have to give me food."

I thought about it. It wasn't like she'd take up much space, and she certainly couldn't eat very much.

"Yeah, okay, that's fine. Mrs. Dawson isn't going to like it, though."

"Who's Mrs. Dawson?"

"Ghost. Real bitchy one."

"Oh. Well, the two of you will barely even know I'm there."

"Fine. So how did you knock me down like that?" I asked.

Honey blurred, there was a moment of intense pain and then I was on my back and staring up at the pale yellow sky. This time she was hovering over me.

"Like that," she said.

"Ow," I said. I got to my feet and rubbed my head, because most of my pain seemed to be settling there. "Jesus, Honey, have you ever taught anyone this shit before? 'Cause so far, your technique really blows."

"Not a human, but we'll figure it out."

"Maybe we can start some other time. I'm not sure how much more training I can take."

She shrugged.

"So you said Fred is active here during the day and in my world at night."

Honey nodded. "Yeah. It's really not much different from what you're doing, Domino. When you cross into the Between, you leave your physical body behind. So does Fred, but he doesn't have any choice about it."

"Then I have to catch him in my world during the day and take him out. I think he's protecting something I need to get at."

"He must have been using the club as his lair."

I realized for the first time there didn't seem to be a sun in this place, just a diffuse yellow light that hung over the city like an inversion layer.

"I wonder what time it is," I said.

"It's about an hour before sundown," said Honey. "We can travel quickly here, through the mist, but it does funny things with the way you perceive the passage of time."

I mentally calculated how long it would take me to get to the club and search it for the vampire's lair after spinning some spells to distract any civilians that were there.

"That doesn't leave me enough time to get to him before he wakes up."

"He'll be out of there as soon as he opens his eyes. He's going to find a new lair."

"Yeah," I said, "but I know someone who can find him."

"You're going to bring me over with you, right? You promised."

"Okay. But I'll need you to come back here with me, probably tomorrow. I still need my guide. And you have to train me."

"Sure thing," Honey said, and we went inside.

Mrs. Dawson was sitting at the kitchen table staring out the window when we came in. She didn't acknowledge us, and I got the feeling she'd spent a good portion of her life doing the very same thing. It was kind of sad, and I wondered why she was hanging around. I'd always thought ghosts had a purpose.

I sank into my recliner and closed my eyes. There was no incantation this time, and it was a good thing since I couldn't cast any spells. I just let the pattern that brought me over unravel in my mind. When I opened my eyes, I'd returned to my Technicolor world. I got up and spent a few minutes trying to tidy up the place.

"Honey?" I called, pouring juice into the summoning. I felt the magic start to build and the threads of the pattern beginning to assemble, then it fell apart and the juice leaked away.

"Not that big of a deal, huh?" I muttered to myself. Then I tried again.

"Honey!" This time I tapped the line running under the building and squeezed as much juice out of it as I could wrap my head around. The summoning snapped into place, wavered and then held. In the middle of my living room, the world thinned out and went sepia-tone, and Honey buzzed into the room. I let go of the juice and reality reasserted itself.

"Nice place," Honey said, flitting around the room. "Looks better in color."

"Thanks."

"So where are we going?"

"I'm going to see a guy about a thing," I said. "You can do…whatever. Just, no evil, like you promised."

"Sure thing, no evil. Can you open a window for me? Just a crack."

I went into the kitchen and raised the window a couple inches. Maybe Mrs. Dawson would get some air.

"Okay," I said, "I'm going. Not sure when I'll be back. There's beer, wine and tequila in the kitchen."

"'Kay, have fun," said Honey. She was fluttering in the middle of the living room, hands behind her back, like a teenager waiting for her parents to leave for the weekend.

I reached for the door. "Mr. Clean's in the set in the office. You turn on that TV, it's your dime."

"No problem," Honey said. "Anyway, he's your familiar. What would I do with him?"

"Okay then. Bye."

"Bye-bye, Domino," said Honey.

I went out and closed the door behind me.

Screw it. A deal's a deal.

I stopped by a grocery store and then drove to Santa Monica. As always, the pier was crowded with people out to watch the sunset. Tourists took pictures and bums panhandled. Both tossed bread crumbs to the seagulls and dodged the shit bombs that rained down in thanks.

Moon Dog, like all too many bums, was a Vietnam veteran. Like many of his brothers-in-arms, he'd come back from the war without his legs and whatever part of the human mind that makes people give a fuck. Unlike most of his fellow soldiers, he'd also come back with a chronic case of lycanthropy.

Moon Dog had been both a crippled hippie and a werewolf for at least forty years. It might seem that he was doubly cursed (or triply, depending on one's opinion of hippies), except that his lycanthropy gave him back the legs that a North Vietnamese antipersonnel mine had taken. When he changed, Moon Dog, like other lupines, went about on all fours.

It wasn't difficult to pick him out of the throng, even in the twilight. In hippie form, Moon Dog rode the streets and sidewalks of L.A. in an electric wheelchair. An eight-foot whip antenna sporting an orange safety flag ascended majestically from a metal bracket bolted to the frame. The back of the chair was devoted to the sticker collection that symbolized Moon Dog's unique take on not giving a fuck-peace symbol, marijuana leaf, Greenpeace, MIA/POW, Marine Corps, Friend of the San Diego Zoo, Bel-Air Homeowners' Association, Beware of Dog, Cthulhu Fish. The centerpiece was a red bumper sticker with large white print: If You're Close Enough To Read This, You're An Asshole.

I caught his eye and waved as I walked over to him. Moon Dog was on the job. He was holding a cardboard sign. The words Will Dance For Beer Money were written on it in black magic marker. I dropped the sack from the grocery store in his lap. Moon Dog looked in the bag. Inside were three porterhouse steaks, fresh off the cow.

"Angus?" he asked. Long, straight white hair was tied down with a red bandana, and bum-tanned cheeks peeked out from behind a scraggly beard.

"Yeah," I said. "How you doing, Moonie?" I refuse to call him Moon Dog to his face, on general principle.

"Grocery store?" asked Moon Dog.

"Yeah, real sorry, Moonie. You want it from the meat market or the pasture, you can get it yourself."

"Nah, it's all good, Domino. I dig the antibiotics and growth hormones. I think my legs are growing back in." He wiggled his stumps.

"That…really freaks me out, Moonie. Look, I need a favor."

"Sure, babe," he said. "What's up?"

"Follow me," I said, and led him over to the lot where I'd parked my car. I pointed to the front quarter-panel on the passenger side. "Take a whiff of that, Moonie."

Moon Dog wheeled up, leaned in and sniffed at the fender. "Smells like Turtle Wax, Domino."

I scowled. "What else?"

"That's about it." Moon Dog rubbed his nose and sniffed noisily. "This old nozzle ain't so good anymore. I think it's this fucking L.A. air."