An older guy in a purple velvet Edwardian jacket holds the door for me when I go inside. Scratch the scar convention. We've been invaded by Renn Faire rejects on acid. I stand for a minute in the alcove. Let my eyes adjust to the dim inside.
The place goes dead silent. Carlos even kills the music. My balls shrink up inside my body and my hand sneaks back for my knife. I open my eyes and about a hundred schizophrenics start applauding. In a minute, they're all chanting "Sandman! Sandman!" There's a banner over the bar. In silver glitter it says ding dong, the witch is dead. There's a framed picture of Mason with a black wreath around it on the bar. Someone's drawn a mustache and devil horns on him in Magic Marker.
People rush forward and start shaking my hand. Patting me on the back. Women kiss me. Guys with funny accents kiss me, too. Some are dressed like ordinary businessmen and women, students, hipsters, and adolescent neopunks. Others look like they're on a weekend pass from an asylum in Oz.
Holy shit. The Sub Rosa have taken over my bar.
Word must have gotten around about my cage match with Mason and the Kissi.
Fuck me. I'm a rock star. And all I really wanted was a burrito.
I belly up to the bar and Carlos beams at me.
"Your friends are a blast!" he yells over the din. "Why didn't you bring them in before?"
"I didn't know they were my friends."
He keeps smiling. He can't hear a word I say. He motions me to get closer so he can whisper something to me. I get right up to him and he says, "Some of these people, no shit, can do magic."
"Can you magic me some rice and beans? I'm hungry enough to eat Orange County."
Two minutes later, Carlos brings me enough food to feed the Pacific Rim. I hold up my tumbler full of Jack and Carlos and I toast each other. He looks extremely happy. The Sub Rosa might be a bunch of lunatics, show-offs, and bureaucrats, but they're a big part of the underground economy that keeps California afloat. And they're not shy about splashing around cash. If the Bamboo House of Dolls stays Sub Rosa central, Carlos will have enough money to retire by Friday.
I try to eat, but people keep coming up and introducing themselves. If I need anything at all, don't hesitate to call. About fifty different women slip me their phone numbers. So do at least that many guys. I don't remember anyone's name. It's one big lovefest blur, and as nice as these people are being, it's really getting to me. I pretend that I'm going out for a smoke, but what I really need is a shadow to disappear into.
On the other hand, I really need a smoke, too.
I light up by the side of the bar. A woman walks over to me. She's dressed like Stevie Nicks in her how-fast-can-I-burn-out-my-nose-with-coke period. When she gets closer, she becomes really interesting. She has the whitest skin I've ever seen. And there's something strange about her face: it moves whether she talks or not. Her face is like the phases of the moon, going from a gorgeous bride-to-be to an old woman with a face like shattered granite.
"Are you having fun inside?" she asks.
I shrug.
"It's nice, but it's a little much. I'm going to finish this and sneak off."
"I'm glad I caught you then. I'm Medea Bava. Did you get the package I left with your friend Vidocq?"
Feathers. Wolf teeth. Blood.
"I got it. And it was after Christmas, but you still cared enough to get me something."
The young woman's and the old woman's faces turn serious.
"You might be a hero to those fools inside, but you're not to me. To me, you're a dangerous man. A criminal for sure. Possibly a wild dog that needs to be put down."
"You're from the Inquisition, aren't you?"
She laughs.
"My boy, I am the Inquisition. And from this moment onward, I will be watching every move you make."
"Isn't that a song by the Police?"
"That's exactly the kind of thing that will get you another package. Only this one will be a bit more, let's say, lively."
"Lady, I've seen Hell and I've seen Hollywood and I have a pretty good idea what Heaven looks like. So, take your threats and shove 'em straight up your deviated septum. For me to worry about your finger wagging, I'd have to give a damn about something, and I've pretty much reached my limit there. Anytime you want to get all junkyard dog, give me a call. You might kill me, but trust me, you're going to have a limp and that face of yours isn't going to move so easily anymore."
She keeps looking at me. No reaction. Nothing. Just her stare shifting through the phases of the moon.