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“It’s yours,” he says.
Smiling, she wraps the donut in a napkin and drops it into her bag. Samael looks puzzled before he realizes she’s going to keep it as a souvenir.
“Did Mr. Muninn fix up the armor any?” I ask.
Samael gives me a look.
“Of course not. The damage is part of the mystique. I notice that you added more than a few burns and scrapes in a very short time.”
“Then you should thank me. I mystiqued it even more.”
Candy says, “He was cute playing Iron Man and it was fun pretending I was fucking Tony Stark, but the armor froze my boobs at night, so I’m kind of glad it’s gone.”
“No, we wouldn’t want one of the few intact holy remnants of the War in Heaven inconveniencing . . . your boobs,” Samael says.
Candy smiles at him.
“Would you like me to update your Wikipedia page?”
He frowns.
“I have a page? I don’t like that. Please remove it.”
“I can’t. But don’t worry about it. It’s mostly old Bible stories and folktales. There isn’t anything about your nice suits.”
“Still.”
“By the way, thanks for all the swell help when I was Downtown,” I say. “It took me three months to find your stupid clues in the library and escape.”
“I told you to read books. If you’d been more curious, you would have found your way out sooner. You’re always complaining that I don’t do enough for you.”
“You do plenty, but even when you help, I end up with more scars.”
“Then you should thank me,” says Samael. “I mystiqued you even more.”
Candy giggles.
“You have no idea how hard it is not to put everything you boys say on Stark’s page.”
Before Samael can explain to Candy all the reasons she shouldn’t call him a boy, a guy walks up and stands next to our table. He’s wearing a loose, expensive-looking black jacket. A dark red silk shirt open at the neck. An alligator belt with a gold buckle. He looks like a rep from a talent agency that could have handled Traci Lords in her jailbait prime.
“I’m sorry to interrupt your conversation, Mr. Stark, but can I speak to you in private?”
“Do my friends look like cops? If you can’t talk in front of them, you can’t talk to me.”
The guy holds up his hands defensively.
“I didn’t mean to offend anyone. My name is—”
“Declan,” I say.
His eyebrows furrow.
“Yes. Declan Garrett. How did you know?”
“It’s just a trick I can do.”
He looks skeptical, then his inner hustler takes over and he keeps talking.
