AllFreeNovel
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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.
I take out a cigarette, spark Mason Faim’s lighter, and let it fall on the table. Spilled bourbon flares up and burns with a pretty blue flame. I grab Mason’s lighter and kick the burning table at the three friends. Grab the sharkskin and drag him to the middle of the bar. The place clears out like we’re a bride and groom about to have our first dance. “Yadokari” by Meiko Kaji plays on the jukebox, all brittle guitar and her sad voice over lush strings.
Thoroughly kicking someone’s ass is a kind of statement, but it’s small-time, like a “Beware of Dog” sign. Sometimes you need to make a point that people can see from space. That kind of point is the opposite of a beating. It doesn’t come from what you do but what people remember, so the less you do the better.
I bark a Hellion hex and Mr. Sharkskin rises into the air, flushed with pus-yellow light so bright you can see his bones. His belt and shoes drop off. Jewelry and bottled souls tinkle to the floor. Another bit of Hellion and his clothes catch fire, flaming off him in an instant, like flash paper.
This is showy arena hoodoo. I used to do stuff like this to opponents in Hell who really pissed me off. It’s supposed to embarrass more than hurt.
Next, his skin does a slow-motion version of what just happened to his clothes. Starting at his hands and feet and moving inward, his skin peels away like a spray-on tan snowstorm. He hangs in the air like a trembling anatomy chart from a Bio 101 textbook.
“Take off your clothes,” I tell his friends. “Or I’ll burn them off like his.”
His friends aren’t dumb. They can’t wait to get bare-assed in front of a bar full of total strangers. The only thing they’re careful with are their own soul bottles. They set them on their clothes like eggs nestled in henhouse nests.
I go back to the floater. I hope people are listening and not just looking. This won’t work if no one hears me.
“I know you have the Qomrama Om Ya. Don’t bother denying it. You have forty-eight hours to bring it to me. If I don’t get it, I’ll peel you down to your bones. And I’ll take my time. You understand me?”
His three friends say, “Yes.”
“I wasn’t talking to you.”
