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WE SIT IN a booth in the back of Roscoe’s, me with my back to the wall. It’s an old family habit after Wild Bill caught one in the spine back in Deadwood. Neither of us had to look at the menu to order. Roscoe’s specializes in fried chicken and waffles in a heroin-addictive gravy. You eat there because the food is great, and if you live in L.A. and aren’t going to flatline on a speed binge, you might as well check out with arteries the color and density of concrete.
I’ve been trying to ignore my arms all morning, but I can’t stand it anymore. I heal fast, but it’s just a fast-forward version of how everyone heals and that means almost-healed skin itches like hell. I lean back against the wall, scratch one arm and then the other. It feels great. I want to dig underneath the red skin and new scars and hack away at the nerves with my fingernails so they’ll shut up.
Candy says, “Have you been sleeping in pet-shop windows? You look like you have fleas.”
“A Gluttire demon made me his chew toy last night.”
“You have all the fun. I’ve never even seen one of those.”
“Unless you see it through binoculars from an air-conditioned bunker, you don’t want to. The bastard burned the hell out of my arms.”
“Let me see.”
I shrug off my coat and push my burned sleeves out of the way. (I really need to change clothes soon. It looks like I stole my clothes from a hobo arsonist.) I hope there aren’t any nice families looking over here riscrover heght now. They might have to bag up their chicken and finish it at home.
Candy leans across the table and pokes my raw red left arm.
“Hey. That hurts.”
“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.”
