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“You big baby. It doesn’t look so bad.”
“I’ll send the next Gluttire to your place to give you a massage and a skin peel.”
Our drinks arrive. My coffee and Candy’s Coke. I haven’t eaten with her before, but I hear that Jades have a real sweet tooth.
In between sips of soda she says, “After breakfast we should see Allegra. She’ll have something to fix you up.”
“That’s not a bad idea. Even if it’s only something to stop this damned itching.”
Candy takes the straw from her drink and wraps it around her finger.
“Let’s start the job interview. Mr. Stark, what’s your favorite color? Your favorite movie? Your favorite song?”
“Are you fucking serious?”
“It’s called speed dating. You have five minutes to see if you like someone, then a permed-bitch control freak rings a bell and you have to move on to someone else.”
“You’re serious. You’ve done this?”
She makes a face and shakes her head.
“Hell no. But I want to see you squirm. And I have lots worse questions than those. If you were a tree, what kind would you be?”
Someone remind me why I came back to earth.
“Christ. Okay. Ask me the questions again.”
She gives me a wicked smile.
“Favorite color, movie, and song.”
I glance at the kitchen, willing our food to arrive so I can stuff my mouth and not talk.
“Hellion gray, Herbie versus Godzilla, and ‘The Star-Spangled Banner.’ ”
“Okay. Now me.”
“If this is how speed dating works, I think I’ll stay home with Kasabian.”
“Go on.”
“Okay. Favorite car, movie, and way to use a knife.”
Our food arrives while she’s answering. Thanks to whatever monsters are watching over me. This will be over in a minute.
“Shelby Mustang and Evil Dead II. I’ve never used a knife except to cut bagels.”
“Wrong. The correct answer is a ’71 Impala Super Sport. Once Upon a Time in the West. And from behind, your right arm around the throat and an upward thrust with your left so the blade slips between the ribs and into the heart.”
The waiter is laying out the plates when I answer. He freezes for a second then puts down our cutlery and glasses of water. He turns and walks away slowly, like from a rabid dog, trying not to draw its attention or piss it off. What a pro. I’m leaving him a massive tip.
“How are the waffles?”
“Perfect. How about your chicken?”
“Smoothing over this hangover like a road grader.”
We don’t talk for a while. Just eat our food like a couple of civilians who haven’t killed enough people to populate a small city. It’s been six months since that night at Avila when we were both in monster mode, ripping our way through some of L.A.’s most elite millionaires and politicos, all of them Mason’s accomplices as he tried to open the gates of Hell. Candy and I did kiss each other that night. A hard, long kiss while we were covered in other people’s blood, a couple of monsters who recognized each other and weren’t afraid of what they saw. And then nothing. Candy went back on the wagon, taking Doc Kinski’s potion to keep from turning back into a killing machine. Then the Drifters invaded. And someone was looking to kill Doc, so she went on the road with him. I don’t know if there’s anything between us really, but it sure as hell feels like someone sprinkled mayhem and saltpeter all over creation to make sure we never find out.
