Sandman Slim (Sandman Slim 1)

"If I gave Mason a hard time it's because he deserved it. Always going on about being a great dark magician. He didn't want to learn anything from magic. He didn't even want to have fun with it. He just wanted to be Lex Luthor. I might not have given him so much grief if I'd known what a little hothouse flower he was."

"See? You're still doing it. But for all your bullshit and your show-off magic, Mason beat you, didn't he? You could pull magic out of the air, but he ended up with real power and you ended up blowing demons for eleven years. Every night, before I go to sleep, I cherish the look on your face as they dragged your ass down to Hell."

Without looking where I'm aiming, I pop off a couple more rounds in the direction of his body.

"Stop it! Stop, goddammit! What do you want to know?"

"Same thing I wanted yesterday. Where's the rest of the Circle?" I toss the gun onto the bed. God, I want a cigarette. "Let's try a different approach. You're right here, so where's Jayne-Anne?"

If Donald Trump and the Wicked Witch of the West had a kid, it would be Jayne-Anne. She looks like a librarian with some money and good taste in clothes, but underneath the Versace, she's Godzilla with tits. She isn't as powerful a magician as Mason, but next to him she's the most focused and ruthless and, in her way, scarier than bad dog Parker.

"I don't know. I heard she's got some kind of movie-business gig."

"What about Cherry Moon?"

Crack open a pedophile's pinata and Cherry Moon is the candy that falls out. She's a Lollipop Doll, one of a gang of girls who take their manga and anime a little too seriously. They all want to grow up to be Sailor Moon and Cherry had the magical skill to do it. Last time I saw her, she was in High Gothic Lolita drag, radiating rough sex and looking all of twelve years old.

"Also don't know about her. Someone said she's running some kind of spa or plastic surgery thing for rich assholes."

"I'm glad to hear that everyone's using their new power for such worthy causes."

"We've all gotta eat. Not me right now, but generally."

"Where's TJ?"

He rolls his eyes when I say the name. "That fucking hippie. After the Lurkers grabbed you, he bawled like a little girl for days. Some people aren't cut out for real life."

"Lurker" is what the Sub Rosa call any secretive magical, mystical, or monstrous freak that isn't them. A naiad is a Lurker. So are zombies and werewolves. Undercover cops are secretive and sometimes monsters, but they aren't Lurkers. They're just pricks.

"Where is he?"

"Sucking dirt in Woodlawn. The little faggot hung himself a week after you went bye-bye. Guess he couldn't get the monsters out of his head."

Poor dumb kid. TJ was even younger than me. He would have been sixteen or seventeen back then. But Kasabian is right about one thing; some people aren't built to see the dark side of magic or deal with the vicious parts of life. TJ never belonged in our little wolf pack. In a way, I was glad he was gone. I hadn't been looking forward to hunting him down.

"I guess we covered Mason and Parker last night. Mason's gone and he took Parker with him. Do I have that right?"

"Yeah. And don't ask me about them because I don't know. People see Parker around town sometimes. Usually right before some other nosy magician gets his neck broken."

The thought of an attack dog like Parker and a Darth Vader wannabe like Mason running wild with heads full of Hellion hoodoo does not take me to a happy place. And the two of them could be holed up anywhere, from Glendale to Bhutan.

"You been out to the old house yet? Pretty, isn't it?"

"What happened to it?"

"Don't know. Maybe Mason took the house with him. Did you find anything good when you went inside?"

"Inside what? The house is gone. What's there to find?">What's that old Sunday school warning about how if you fight dragons too long, you can become one? That's been spinning around in my head for years, long enough that I know I'd rather be a dragon than a sheep to the slaughter. Maybe, in some kinder, gentler version of the world, I could walk away from the Circle, get Zen, and forgive them for what they did to me. But I can't forgive them for Alice. Never for that. Maybe I'm not worth killing for, but she is.

"I should go. I have to meet someone," I lie. I set the guns back in the oilcloth and wrap them up. I'm feeling a little ashamed of myself, like I'm letting down the old man. Without looking at him, I ask, "Want to meet up tomorrow?"

"Of course."

I make it out the door before he can give me another French bear hug.

I STEER THE Mercedes west toward the one other place in town that makes my skin crawl almost as much as the old apartment.

I turn off Sunset and onto Laurel Canyon Boulevard. The change from Hollywood to Beverly Hills is always sudden and startling, like flipping a switch. Bus fumes and strip-mall nail salons transform to trimmed green lawns and stately homes. This isn't movie-star Beverly Hills, but the older part. The homes are large, but not bloated parade floats. It looks like grown-ups might have lived here.