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“Super-enlightened and he still let you drive that ugly-ass, dog-bit old Buick.”
“You saw that, did you? I was gonna get that shit pounded out.”
“Look like something happen when you was running. You always was afraid of dogs. Walk a quarter mile not to go by that white dog Miss McCutcheon had fenced up in her yard. Was you running from them doggies, Lemon?”
“That white dog come over that fence once, you wasn’t there. I spent best of an afternoon top a Oldsmobile before Miss McCutcheon come get him. I hated that dog.”
“You was running.” Minty smiled. “S’alls I need to know.”
“You think you smart. I know you, Minty Fresh. I watch yo mama whip yo ass for having pee pants when you was five. But you don’t know me. This ain’t gonna be like it was before. I ain’t like Orcus.”
“Who?” Minty tsking like, What you wasting my time with now?
“Orcus. Big, black motherfucker with wings, tore shit out of this town. Kill him a bunch of y’all motherfuckers. You know who I mean.”
“Oh.” Minty searched his memory. “Oh, yeah, what ever happened to him?” He knew what happened to Orcus. He’d been torn apart by the Morrigan.
“Not the point,” said Lemon. “I ain’t like him, all bustin’ shit up, biting people’s heads off and shit. I’m moving in smooth, in the daylight.” He held out his arms, just letting sunlight through the front windows get all over him. “Shit about to get real up in here, Minty.”
“It feel like it is.”
“But nobody don’t get between me and what I want got a worry in the world.”
“That’s good to know.”
“Not even that pale white girl of yours.”
“Mmmp,” Minty said. A percussive sound, like disappointment hitting home. He shook his head slowly, looking at the counter, just wishing, regretting, truly unhappy that Lemon had gone there, and when he looked up, when his head snapped up, his eyes were like golden fire. “You ain’t bad, Lemon.”
Lemon’s eyes went wide for a second, then he tightened down, tried to show some swagger. “You don’t know me. You ain’t just talkin’ to me anymore, cuz.”
“You ain’t shit, Lemon.”
“You don’t know what I am now, Minty. I been fifty years in a cave, I have outwaited mountains, I have slain multitudes, I have brought dark death down on whole cities. Do not fuck with me.”
“Uh-huh.” said Minty, unimpressed. “Of all of us, all of us that collect souls, pass them on, do the business of Death, you all of sudden chosen by this badass lord of darkness to lead his conquest over light? You, Lemon Fresh? You? Why you? What make you special? Your blood? Is it your golden eyes?”
Minty leaned on the counter, leaned forward, eyes wide, so Lemon could get his point. “Is that it, motherfucker? You the only one in the whole world picked to start a new order, the only upstart from the Underworld to rise in my motherfucking city? You? Bitch-ass Lemon motherfucking-broke-ass-Buick Fresh? Niggah, please.”
“You need to chillax, cuz.” Lemon was suddenly interested in the rack of CDs near him. “You got any Xanax, or gin or something back there you can self-medicate with, ’cause that anger is not healthy. Our peoples got high blood pressure. They a vein standing out on your head, right here.” He took off his hat and pointed to a spot on his own head. “Right here, like throbbin’ and shit. You probably havin’ a stroke.”
Minty said: “You touch any of my people, what happened to Orcus will look like a spa day compared to what happen to you. Now get the fuck out my store.”
Lemon looked up from the CDs. “Don’t push me, niggah. I will end you right here.”
Minty now held his arms out to his sides, angry Jesus style, suffer all the bitch-ass motherfuckers need an ass-whoopin’ unto me, for I shall rain wrath down upon them—that look.
Lemon took a step toward the counter, then saw something there in Minty’s stare that stopped him. He checked his watch, which was thin and gold and looked feminine on a man his size. “You lucky I got appointments and shit.” He turned on his heel and strolled away, limping a little from his burden of unshakable chill. The bell over the door jingled and he was gone.
“You a lying motherfucker,” Minty said. He went to the back room, found a bottle of cognac he kept in the desk, uncorked it, then paused, corked it, put it away. He didn’t need to steady his nerves. He went back out front. Flipped and cued the album on the turntable, then sat on the high-backed stool he kept behind the counter, stretched his legs out, threw his head back, closed his eyes, and let Bird’s notes wash over him.
He didn’t know what he would have done if Lemon had come at him, if whatever Lemon was now, or what deity was wearing Lemon had come at him—he didn’t have a plan, didn’t have a clue, but he was steady, cool as a sea breeze, unafraid, because there was something, even if he didn’t know exactly what it was. Even as he’d asked Lemon, What make you special? he had felt it. You ain’t the only one, Lemon.
Lily said, “Has it ever occurred to you that this Death Merchant thing is just a shitty job?”
“A dirty job,” Charlie said. “The Big Book says it’s a dirty job. But, yeah. I used to think that we were like Death’s middle management, but we’re not. We’re Death’s grunts.”
They were sitting at the bar in Charlie’s empty shop, there to plan what they were going to do with it. “Whatever you are, it’s ridiculous. There’s no vacation time, no retirement, and if you fuck up, the universe as we know it will collapse. Plus, the system is insanely complex, and you know what chaos theory says about that.”
