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“That’s easy,” Carlos says. He sets a gimlet in front of a Mal de Mer in a tight wife beater. He’s shaved down the coral on his scalp so it looks like a mullet swept back to the shoulders and covered in skin like a cobra’s—diamond-scaled and shiny as marble. Carlos picks up an empty glass and uses it to point across the room.
“Them,” he says. “Those fucking Cold Cases.”
I turn and spot a table with four of them.
Cold Cases are soul merchants. There’s a lot of call for fresh souls in L.A. It’s an easy town to get yours smudged up. Or maybe you get dumb and desperate and sell it to Lucifer. Don’t worry. Just call your friendly neighborhood Cold Case. They have plenty of replacement souls. Most they even paid for, though there are rumors that they sometimes lift a particularly spotless soul without the owner’s permission. Everyone hates Cold Cases, but enough people need them that when one of them gets in trouble, evidence gets misplaced. Paperwork disappears. Not a one of them has ever spent a night in jail.
These four are laughing together at a table, passing around a bottle of expensive bourbon. Old Cold Cases keep a low profile, but these guys are young and out to show off their wealth. Sharkskin suits. Bright ankle-length coats. Italian shoes and enough blood diamonds on their fingers and ears to finance a third-world coup.
“See their belts?” says Carlos. “They carry souls around with them these days. It’s a status thing. Like how crazy GIs used to carry strings of dead enemies’ ears.”
I didn’t notice it at first but he’s right. They’re all wearing skinny belts from which dangle small glowing bottles.
Carlos says, “What they do is bad enough, but flaunting and disrespecting people’s souls like that, it’s a sin, man. A goddamn sin.”
“They good customers?”
“If I lose all my Cold Case trade, good riddance. All they do is complain about whatever I serve them. They want to hang out late at night? Let them go to Denny’s.”
“Okay.”
I down my shot and head for their table, shouldering my way through the crowd. Pushing. Stepping on toes. I want them to see me coming. I want everyone to see me coming.
All four look up when I reach the table, but none of them move.
“Hi. I’m with the IRS. This is just a spot check see if you’ve paid this quarter’s asshole tax.”
I hold out my hand to the one closest. He has a pretty-boy face but bad-news eyes. He’s the one in greenish sharkskin. He has the sleeves of his jacket pushed up to his elbows, eighties’ style. That alone is enough for me to punch him.
I say, “I’m going to need to see some ID, sir.”
His mean little eyes narrow.
“Who the hell are you? There are four of us, faggot.”
I smile.
“Aw, I’m just kidding. You boys look like fun. Is that good? You don’t mind, do you?”
I grab the bottle of bourbon and get a good mouthful. Make a face and spit it all over Mr. Sharkskin’s suit.
“How can you drink that shit?”
I gesture with the bottle like a low-IQ drunk, splashing whiskey all over the table and Sharkskin’s friends. All three get up, kicking their chairs back. I wait for one of them to reach into his jacket for a gun, but it doesn’t happen. They’re so used to being protected they’re not even armed.>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.”
“Yeah, but I almost got lucky. A guy offered me a million dollars for it a couple of days ago.”
“He thought you had it?”
“How’s that for a kick in the head? And there are other assholes out there who think the same thing. Whoever really has it must be laughing his ass off.”
Traven gestures to Carlos.
