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“You used to do your own hoodoo at parties? What kind? I’ve heard about play Satanists and that scene. Was that what you were into?”
She gives me a sly smile.
“Don’t make me laugh. That was those West Hollywood hippies into that nonsense. I only did one type of magic.”
“What kind was that?”
She opens her eyes wide.
“Sex magic. I wasn’t looking to go to the next plane of existence or any of that line. I was all about the here and now. Flesh, boy. That’s the only kind of magic I wanted. And I was good at it.”
“What went wrong?”
Thivierge frowns.
“I don’t know. I was running the scene. It was a new ritual, so it was my fault. But for all these years, I’ve had the feeling that someone had it in for me. That they screwed with my tools and potions so I ended up like this.”
She holds her bony arms out wide.
“The White Witch of California.”
“How bad is it?”
“My condition? Anything much above thirty degrees and I’m panting like a dog. Forty is heatstroke. At fifty, I cook like a luau pig.”
“Who would have wanted to do this to you?”
“I don’t know and I’m not sure I want to. You’re the first person who’s tracked me down in all these years. How did you do it?”
“Magic, of course.”
She leans forward in her
chair and speaks conspiratorially.
“Well, if you’ve come here for lessons, you can walk right out the front door.”
“I don’t want lessons. You know why I’m here. Forever yours, forever mine.”
She laces her fingers together nervously before looking at me.
“How do you know about that? Forever Yours, Forever Mine has been buried for decades.”
“To tell you the truth, I don’t know anything about it. That’s why I’m here. And as for how I know about it, I learned about it from Chris Stein’s police file.”
She looks down at the floor, frowning.
“Chris,” she says. “That colossal fuckup.”
“That’s what I hear from people.”
“What are you, a detective?”
“Something like that.”
“Good luck. Half of Hollywood hated him by the end. Including me.”
“Why’s that?”
