Secondhand Souls (Grim Reaper 2)

Sophie turned back to the man in yellow, held out the page she had been coloring. “Here, you can have this.”

“Well, thank you, peanut.” He took the drawing, then untangled from the table and stood as he looked at it. “That’s very kind.”

“Their names are Death, Disease, War, and Sparkle-­Darkle Glitter-­tits,” Sophie said. “They’re the four little ponies of the Apocalypse.” Sophie liked saying things that shocked ­people, especially nuns and old ­people, but he wasn’t shocked.

The man in yellow nodded, folded the drawing, and slipped it into his breast pocket. He looked over his sunglasses and Sophie could see for the first time that his eyes were golden-­colored. “Well, y’all take care, Shy Dookie,” he said.

“Bye,” Sophie said. She took her handful of crayons and skipped back into school. Once in the door, she looked back to the picnic table. The man in yellow was gone.

I’m not invisible,” Rivera said into the phone.

“I never said you were invisible,” said Minty Fresh. “The Big Book ­never said you were invisible. It says ‘­people may not see you’. Even if you are retrieving a soul vessel, ­people can see you if you call attention to yourself.”

“I didn’t call attention to myself. The old man walked in on me —­was going to shoot me.”

“And the bitch just Tased him. You know, that banshee know how to party.”

“I’m glad you’re enjoying this, Mr. Fresh, but if I hadn’t known the EMTs who arrived to take care of the old man, I’d be facing breaking and entering charges.”

“Emergency operator didn’t record your call, then?”

“I didn’t call. The old man had one of those electronic alert medallions. I just pushed the button and they dispatched.”

“Yeah, shit tend to work out like that. If our frequent phone calls don’t cause the end of the world, I’ll tell you about my unified theory of irony someday.”

“I’ll look forward to that. Meanwhile, that’s five out of five ­people from my calendar who I visited and there was no evidence of a soul vessel.”

“And out of five, even you would have found one. Even a blind squirrel—­”

“They weren’t there.”

“Maybe you should try starting at the end of the list. Catch up on the most recent names, the ­people just went on your calendar. Retrieve those and work backward.”

“When? I’m officially back on duty. I have real cases to work.”

“Well, you put this off anymore, shit gonna get real up in here real quick. Let me call your attention to exhibit A, Inspector: motherfucking banshee Tasing motherfuckers in the privacy of their own home.”

“I know. I know. But, assuming I find the soul vessels, how am I going to sell them? With my caseload, I can’t open the bookstore.”

“Hire someone.”

“I can’t a

fford to hire someone. I’m barely keeping the doors open working there myself, and I don’t even take a salary.”

“You do what you’re supposed to do, collect the soul vessels, the ­money will come. It always does.”

“That more of your unified theory?”

“Experience. I’ve known a dozen Death Merchants. Everyone said the same thing: as soon as you start doing it, the money comes. You are catching up, Inspector. You’re not going to have time to work in your store at all. It’s a bookstore. There’s a multitude of bright, overeducated motherfuckers with liberal arts degrees who would be happy to come work for you, just on the outside chance someone might ask them about Milton or Postmodernism or something, just like for my record store, there’s a shitload of insufferable know-­it-­all hipsters who will work for next to nothing for the privilege of condescending to customers about their musical knowledge. Just run an ad and hire someone.”

“What about that spooky girl who used to work for Asher?” Rivera asked. “She knew all about our business. I mean, if it’s all right with you, I know you two—­”

“I told you, it ain’t a motherfuckin’ thing, Rivera.”

“Sorry. Do you have her number?”

“I’ll call her for you.”