“One more thing. Do you think the Terminator had a soul?”

“Excuse me?”

“I mean yeah, he was a robot, but he had a human body on top of all the gears. The body was even cloned from a real guy. So could someone or something like the Terminator have a soul?”

He thinks for a minute and shakes his head.

“No. I don’t think so. Why do you ask?”

“I was hoping to track someone down in Hell, but now I doubt he’s there. I doubt he’s anywhere.”

“You’ll have to explain that to me sometime.”

“Sure. Sometime.”

He gets up and goes and joins Brigitte with the others.

So much for tracking down Trevor Moseley in Hell and giving him the third degree. I hold up the remains of my coffee to Carlos.

“Can you make this more interesting?”

He gets a dusty bottle from under the counter and pours a shot of Aqua Regia into the cup. Just what I need to kill those last few brain cells that are getting in the way of what I think I need to do.

Carlos puts the bottle back and says, “You know, someone was asking about you yesterday.”

“Did you get a name?”

He shakes his head.

“He didn’t say. But he was dressed to the nines and the tens.”

“Did he look like someone who might produce bad TV or good porn?”

“Neither. He was right out of GQ.”

“Then he wasn’t Declan Garrett.”

“Who’s that?”

“I was eating a donut and he tried to shoot me.”

“Some people are like that. Anyway, the guy who is looking for you said he’d be back. He has a business deal for you.”

“When he gets here tell him to fuck off. I’m beginning to I think I’ve spent this whole month doing things backward.”

“Backward how?”

Carlos pours more Aqua Regia into my cup. The more I drink, the clearer it gets. I look around to make sure Traven doesn’t see me.

“I’ve been looking for a thing, but what I should have been looking for is who wants it. Think of the ultimate weapon. Think of a death ray that fits in your pocket like a phone. Who would want that? In the old days, it would be the Vigil. They had a massive hard-on for hoodoo tech. Who’s left in L.A. like that? Not the cops. If they had the 8 Ball, they’d have blown themselves up by now. Who does that leave? Gangsters. But not civilian ones. They’re dumber than cops, so they’d all be dead. It’s got to be a Sub Rosa or Lurker crew. They’re the only ones who might handle the 8 Ball without setting off World War Three.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, but feel free to yammer.”

He sets out coasters and drinks for other customers.

I say, “How would you feel if I became extremely unreasonable?”

Carlos leans on the bar and speaks quietly.

“Like the old days? You’re not going to kill anybody?”

“Absolutely not.”

He stands up and takes empty glasses off the bar.

“Things have been quiet lately. Business is off. Maybe we need a little . . . what’s the French thing?”

“Grand Guignol?”

“That’s it. Some of that.”

I nod. Push the empty cup at him. The place is crowded for a weeknight. Civilian groupies huddle at the jukebox with a vampire holding hands with a blue-skinned Ludere. Some Razzers pick at a plate of deep fried tumors. Horned Lyphs, a tour group from Seattle, take snapshots in front of the old punk posters. A table of psychics quietly shares a bottle of tequila shaped like a Día de los Muertos skull.

“Who don’t you like? I mean if they all dropped down dead, who would you not miss?”

“That’s easy,” Carlos says. He sets a gimlet in front of a Mal de Mer in a tight wife beater. He’s shaved down the coral on his scalp so it looks like a mullet swept back to the shoulders and covered in skin like a cobra’s—diamond-scaled and shiny as marble. Carlos picks up an empty glass and uses it to point across the room.

“Them,” he says. “Those fucking Cold Cases.”

I turn and spot a table with four of them.

Cold Cases are soul merchants. There’s a lot of call for fresh souls in L.A. It’s an easy town to get yours smudged up. Or maybe you get dumb and desperate and sell it to Lucifer. Don’t worry. Just call your friendly neighborhood Cold Case. They have plenty of replacement souls. Most they even paid for, though there are rumors that they sometimes lift a particularly spotless soul without the owner’s permission. Everyone hates Cold Cases, but enough people need them that when one of them gets in trouble, evidence gets misplaced. Paperwork disappears. Not a one of them has ever spent a night in jail.

These four are laughing together at a table, passing around a bottle of expensive bourbon. Old Cold Cases keep a low profile, but these guys are young and out to show off their wealth. Sharkskin suits. Bright ankle-length coats. Italian shoes and enough blood diamonds on their fingers and ears to finance a third-world coup.

“See their belts?” says Carlos. “They carry souls around with them these days. It’s a status thing. Like how crazy GIs used to carry strings of dead enemies’ ears.”

I didn’t notice it at first but he’s right. They’re all wearing skinny belts from which dangle small glowing bottles.

Carlos says, “What they do is bad enough, but flaunting and disrespecting people’s souls like that, it’s a sin, man. A goddamn sin.”

“They good customers?”

“If I lose all my Cold Case trade, good riddance. All they do is complain about whatever I serve them. They want to hang out late at night? Let them go to Denny’s.”

“Okay.”

I down my shot and head for their table, shouldering my way through the crowd. Pushing. Stepping on toes. I want them to see me coming. I want everyone to see me coming.

All four look up when I reach the table, but none of them move.

“Hi. I’m with the IRS. This is just a spot check see if you’ve paid this quarter’s asshole tax.”

I hold out my hand to the one closest. He has a pretty-boy face but bad-news eyes. He’s the one in greenish sharkskin. He has the sleeves of his jacket pushed up to his elbows, eighties’ style. That alone is enough for me to punch him.

I say, “I’m going to need to see some ID, sir.”

His mean little eyes narrow.

“Who the hell are you? There are four of us, faggot.”

I smile.

“Aw, I’m just kidding. You boys look like fun. Is that good? You don’t mind, do you?”

I grab the bottle of bourbon and get a good mouthful. Make a face and spit it all over Mr. Sharkskin’s suit.

“How can you drink that shit?”

I gesture with the bottle like a low-IQ drunk, splashing whiskey all over the table and Sharkskin’s friends. All three get up, kicking their chairs back. I wait for one of them to reach into his jacket for a gun, but it doesn’t happen. They’re so used to being protected they’re not even armed.

I take out a cigarette, spark Mason Faim’s lighter, and let it fall on the table. Spilled bourbon flares up and burns with a pretty blue flame. I grab Mason’s lighter and kick the burning table at the three friends. Grab the sharkskin and drag him to the middle of the bar. The place clears out like we’re a bride and groom about to have our first dance. “Yadokari” by Meiko Kaji plays on the jukebox, all brittle guitar and her sad voice over lush strings.

Thoroughly kicking someone’s ass is a kind of statement, but it’s small-time, like a “Beware of Dog” sign. Sometimes you need to make a point that people can see from space. That kind of point is the opposite of a beating. It doesn’t come from what you do but what people remember, so the less you do the better.

I bark a Hellion hex and Mr. Sharkskin rises into the air, flushed with pus-yellow light so bright you can see his bones. His belt and shoes drop off. Jewelry and bottled souls tinkle to the floor. Another bit of Hellion and his clothes catch fire, flaming off him in an instant, like flash paper.

This is showy arena hoodoo. I used to do stuff like this to opponents in Hell who really pissed me off. It’s supposed to embarrass more than hurt.