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When we’re just a couple of feet apart, she stops, peels off the driving gloves, and drops them into the clasp bag. She takes the cigarette from my hand and inhales deeply, letting the smoke drift slowly from her nostrils.
“Unfiltered. You sweet boy.”
I wonder what’s behind those dark glasses. I swear, even in daylight I can see a faint glow from underneath the lenses. She could be sporting twin suns or headlights back there. You would not want to aim your road rage at this woman.
Mustang Sally cocks her head and stares at me for a few seconds.
“I know you. The charming Frenchman introduced us.”
She has a low, purring smoker’s voice, the kind you can almost feel in your chest when she speaks.
“You’ve got a good memory. That was my friend Vidocq. He was looking for Mickey the Hammer’s grave and figured that since you’d been everywhere and see everything, you might have noticed where he was buried.”
“Yes. He’s an alchemist and Mickey was . . . what? A tracker? He left me a few offerings, too.”
“Mickey was a scoria hound. He could trace anyone or anything through its trail in the aether. I guess he found the wrong person because he ended up dead. People said he was buried with a scroll explaining how to do it. You told Vidocq where to find his grave.”
“And did he find what he was looking for?”
“The body was where you said it would be, but someone got there before us and picked it clean. It cost Vidocq a lot of donuts to find that body.”
She shrugs and gazes out at the traffic.
“That’s the way of the road. It’s gas, gab, or food. Nobody rides for free.”
I go back to the bike and bring her the bag of snacks. Sally smiles when she sees it. I hold it out to her. She doesn’t take it. Just pulls the edge of the bag with a fingernail and looks inside.
“My. You must be looking for a diamond as big as the Ritz.” She smiles a tiger’s smile. “Put it in the car and ask your question.”
I go to where she’s parked. The Cobra’s seats are perfect. They look brand-new, but she must have logged thousands of miles in the thing. The only thing that gives away she lives and eats there is the trail of litter that stretches out behind the car for as long as I can see. Cookie boxes. Cellophane from around snack cakes. Crushed cigarette packs. Sally marks her territory and no one stops her. Not CHP. Not cops. No one.
I get back just as she grinds out the cigarette with the toe of one delicate shoe.
“I need a back door into Hell,” I say. “A way in that no one will notice.”
She curls her lips into a half smile.
“Sneaking into Hell. That’s old magic. Beginning-of-the-world stuff. Back when the different planes of existence weren’t so far apart that the residents of one don’t even believe in the existence of the other.”
“Is that a problem?”
“It depends on how you want to go in. There are places where this twelve-lane Möbius strip is the Hell parents tell kids they’ll end up in if they don’t behave. There are other places where this is Heaven.”
She smiles.
“You don’t want to go in that way. It’s too unpredictable.”
“Are there other ways in?”
“Don’t be in such a rush. Give a lady a moment to think.”
She takes another Lucky from the pack. I light it with Mason’s lighter. As she breathes in the smoke, I swear the glow behind her sunglasses brightens.
“Nice car,” I say.
“Thanks. It’s pretty but it might be time to trade it in. It’s getting too noticeable. These days, if you own something long enough, it becomes vintage and everybody wants one. In my day, when something was old, it was just old.”
“I bet it handles these roads well.”
