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“This is bullshit.”
“Watch your language. And this is nonnegotiable.”
I start out but stop and look back at the Shonin.
“Hey, muertita. You know what an Ommah is? I heard a Jade say it.”
“You’re involved with a Jade and you don’t know what an Ommah is?”
“I lost my library card. Just tell me what it means.”
“It’s an old word. Arabic. It means ‘mother.’ The Ommahs are the Jade matriarchs. They control the whole Jade world. Set the rules. Tell them where to go and what to do.”
“When to have kids?”
“Especially that. Breeding is very important to Jades. They like to keep their lineage clean and controlled. It’s why they go for such a high price.”
“What do you mean a high price?”
“At market. When they’re sold. There are few Jades in the world. They live short, exciting lives and are gone. That’s why they’re so expensive.” The Shonin laughs. “How do you not know these things?”
“Thanks,” I say, and leave. As the door closes I can hear the Shonin.
“Seriously. How dumb is that boy?”
Apparently, dumber than even I thought.
To hell with Wells and his inkblots. I need a drink.
I go outside and call Candy. No one answers, so I leave a message that I’m going to Bamboo House of Dolls and that she should meet me there if she’s feeling better.
The rain still pounds down. A couple of agents under an awning palm their cigarettes when I come out. They whisper to each other and quietly laugh. Yes, I’m a commander of men.
Six Vigil agents in expensive golf clothes play a round under oversize umbrella
s. Disguised spooks playing a fake round of a brain-dead game in a billionaire’s playpen in a monsoon while around them, the city reaches population zero. If the Angra have a sense of humor they won’t be able to invade. They’ll laugh themselves stupid and wait for us to die off pretending that nothing is wrong.
I STEP THROUGH a shadow and come out in front of Bamboo House of Dolls. It’s my Sistine Chapel. My home away from home. The best bar in L.A. The first bar I walked into after escaping from Hell. It’s a punk tiki joint. Old Germs, Circle Jerks, Iggy and the Stooges posters on the wall. Plastic palm trees and hula girls around the liquor bottles. And there’s Carlos, the bartender, mixing drinks in a Hawaiian shirt. On the jukebox, Martin Denny is playing an exotic palm-tree version of “Winter Wonderland.”
It’s a small, damp afternoon crowd in the place. Smaller than usual. Few civilians. Mostly Lurkers. Three gloomy necromancers play bridge with a Hand of Glory filling the fourth seat. A couple of blue-skinned schoolgirl Luderes play their favorite scorpion-and-cup game. A table of excited Goth kids throw D&D dice and cop discreet glances at the crowd from the back of the room. Games for everyone. A necessary distraction when the sky is falling. Still, it’s Christmas and the mood isn’t bad. It’s a Wonderful Life crossed with Night of the Living Dead.
Carlos serves drinks wearing a Santa hat.
“The salaryman returns,” he says when I sit down at the bar. “How’s life behind a desk?”
“If anyone ever actually gets me to sit at a desk you have my permission to shoot me.”
Carlos pours me a shot of Aqua Regia from my private supply.
“It’s not so bad,” he says. “Take me. The bar is sort of my desk. I come in at pretty much the same time each day. Do my prep. Serve my bosses—you ungodly things—and go home tired and satisfied knowing that I’ve kept America watered and prosperous for one more day.”
“You’re a saint. When you die they’ll name a junior high after you and your reliquary will be full of shot glasses and lime wedges.”
“Don’t forget a boom box. I need my tunes.”
“The difference between us is one, you’re the boss. Two, you can throw out anyone you want anytime you want. And three, you have a jukebox by your desk. Me, all I have is a dead man in Liberace robes and a cowboy with a stick the size of a redwood up his ass.”
Carlos pours himself a shot and leans on the bar.
