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“You got it,” says Carlos. “Aqua Regia for you?”
I shake my head.
“Black coffee. I’ll be setting a saintly example tonight.”
“Better you than me,” says Carlos. “Hey. Put that back.”
There’s a skinny blond guy in a red Pendleton shirt trying to palm the cash the drunk next to him left sitting on the bar.
I reach for the guy, but before I touch him he screams. His hands have shrunk to doll size.
I don’t see any witches or Coyote tricksters around. Carlos is holding a crushed paper cup in his hand. Holy water, amber, and spots of what look like red mercury wormwood drip from between his fingers. Fucking Carlos just used hoodoo on someone.
“Where did you learn that?”
“Get up and get out,” Carlos tells Tiny Hands.
The money is too big for the guy to hold on to. He drops it on the floor. I think he wants to scream, but his brain has vapor-locked.
“Your hands will be okay in a couple of hours. But your head won’t be if you ever come back here,” says Carlos, grabbing up a baseball bat from under the bar.
Still staring at his mangled hands, Tiny Hands backs out the door.
“Neat trick, huh? Cutter Blade taught it to me for a bottle of Gentleman Jack. I keep the potion back here, and when someone gets untoward, I crush a cup while giving them the hairy eyeball. I’m the new brujo in town, right, motherfuckers?”
People bellied up to the bar clap and hoot. Carlos bows like it’s Las fucking Vegas.
“Why do you need that hoodoo?”
Carlos moves his head from side to side like he’s thinking.
“I can’t have you cleaning up my messes forever. And you can’t be here all the time. I decided that with all you abracadabra types around, learning a trick or two was better than taking one of those pepper-spray courses.”
“That’s not a bad idea. But be careful with that stuff. Crazy shit can happen when you learn on your own.”
“Like what?”
“Make sure you wash that stuff off your hands before you pee,” says Candy.
“I’m going to etch that on my eyeballs,” he says, handing her a beer.
“I’ll come by and teach you a couple of civilian-safe tricks after I find the 8 Ball.”
“Muchas gracias,” says Carlos, and sets a cup of coffee in front of me.
I’m impressed with the hoodoo. It’s hard for civilians to ever do real magic and harder still for them not to kill themselves doing it. But Carlos has always had balls of steel. He’s had skinheads and zombies in here and he just cleaned up the mess and started serving drinks again. When his clientele switched from regular L.A. drunks to Sub Rosas and Lurkers, he didn’t even blink. I’m not surprised he can pull off some bush magic.
Father Traven and Brigitte come in with Vidocq and Allegra. Traven looks tired. His worn soldier’s face is pale and there are dark rings around his eyes. That’s where the drinking comes from. He doesn’t sleep, so he tries to knock himself out with booze. I’ve been there. It works too. But it’ll kill you faster than the worst insomnia.
The father is another civilian who’s picked up a little hoodoo. Before he became a professional bookworm, he was a sin eater, a priest who used bread and salt to ritually consume the sins of the dead. When he started working with us, he learned to use those sins as a weapon. He calls it the Via Dolorosa. It’s like a horrible kiss when he puts his mouth over yours and spits enough sins down your gullet to book you a seat in the deepest, darkest pit in Hell.
Candy gives my arm a squeeze and goes over to the happy couples. Like we agreed, she leads Vidocq, Allegra, and Brigitte away and aims Traven at me.
“Good to see you,” he says. “It’s been a while.”
“Sorry. I got so twisted around looking for the Qomrama that I stopped talking to practically everyone. Especially when I came up with nothing.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
