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He nods and she goes into the room.
I say, “I believe you have a date.”
“Now all I have to do is find something dazzling.”
“I don’t think you know her well enough for 2001 or Zardoz. One’s too weird and one’s too slow.”
“Yeah. Those are second-date movies.”
“Third.”
“You think?”
“At least.”
“She means it, right? Like, you don’t think she just said that to make fun of me?”
“I don’t think Candy hangs out with people like that. She knows killers, but not mean girls.”
“Okay. Now I just have to find something. The Fifth Element?”
“That could be a first-date movie.”
“Okay,” he says, taking out his beer and finishing it in one go.
“You keep saying ‘okay.’ ”
“Do I?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay.”
Drums come through the wall, mixing with the wailing guitar.
“Good luck,” I say. “I’m going to Bamboo House.”
“Okay.”
A LITTLE HUNG over, I head to the Vigil the next afternoon.
Outside, I stop with the other smoking fed delinquents and light up a Malediction. A grounds-keeping crew is running an industrial mower over the golf course, convincing absolutely no one that life goes as usual in the country club. How are they trying to fool with this shit? Is there anyone left in the neighborhood? These were high-toned families. Old money on the skids and new money on the way up, but all with enough resources to be among the first to blow town when the skies opened up.
Maybe the Vigil is keeping up the charade in case they get buzzed by enemy drones. Only who’s using drones over L.A. anymore? Not the Angra. Maybe al-Qaeda is in cahoots with the old Gods. Why not? We don’t look much like winners down here.
Inside Vigil headquarters is like the outside. Busy. Busy. Busy. Feds in suits and others in their golf togs disguises hustle from meetings with tablets under their arms. Others unpack and test angelic Vigil tech freshly shipped in from Washington. Maintenance crews swab the walls and floors. In the constant damp, mildew turns up here like anywhere else and the wet fouls some of the gear.
A group of Dreamers sits around a long plastic table in a break room. There’s a crèche and a little aluminum Christmas tree by the microwave. The Dreamers seem tired and a little hung over themselves. Looks like holding reality together is a bad career choice these days. Keitu Brown is there with her parents. Ten years old, she’s the leader of the bunch. Kids are always the strongest Dreamers. I met her once through Patty Templeton, a dead Dreamer I didn’t do a very good job of protecting. Keitu gives me a little wave. I wave back. Dad gives me a look and puts his arm around his daughter’s shoulder. I keep moving.
The door to the Shonin’s magic room is locked and there’s something new on the wall. A key pad and a box the size of an old PC, with a glass plate on the front.
There’s a shade over the door to the Shonin’s room, so I can’t see if anyone is in there. I bang on the glass. A few seconds later an intercom crackles.
“Put your hand on the scanner, fatso.”
I push the key on the intercom.
“The glass plate on the front?”
