I move my arm away from her hand and pour myself more wine.
“You’re just jealous ’cause everyone knows my daddy’s name and no one’s ever heard of yours.”
“This isn’t a joke.”
“Everything is a joke if you come at it from the right angle and that’s the angle I’m coming at this conversation.”
I swallow the wine and set down the glass.
“I spent eleven years Downtown and you think Jake the Snake is going to twist me around in the few weeks it takes to make a movie? I don’t care if he’s my father. All that means is he fucked my mom. I grew up with another guy who fucked my mom and he wanted me dead every day of my life. Hell, in the world’s greatest dad contest, Lucifer wins just for not wanting me laid out with pennies on my eyes. Like I said before, he isn’t what keeps me up at night. It’s humans I worry about.”
Vidocq steps between us and puts a hand on both our shoulders.
“Why don’t we all sit down, have some more wine, and forget this talk of devils and fathers. Neither of those subjects ever leads to anything pleasant.”
I look at Allegra. Her heart is going like crazy and her pupils are dilated. Her breathing is steady, but she’s having to work at it.
“Thanks. But I’ve got to be somewhere.”
“Please don’t go,” she says.
She puts her hand on my arm again. I pull away and go to the door.
“Thanks again for the elixir. What do I do with it?”
“Just drink it,” says Vidocq. “But mix it with something first. It tastes a bit like turpentine.”
“I’ll pick up some margarita mix and little umbrellas. Thanks.”
“Come back soon, okay?” says Allegra.
I open the door and go out into the hall. I don’t have anything to say to her, so I don’t say anything.
Of course, it’s occurred to me that Lucifer might be my father, but how do you even begin to wrap your mind around something like that? Is he the secret to my whole sorry life? Why I had so much power when I was a kid and why I never did a damn thing with it when I got older? Is it that simple? Maybe it’s why it was so easy for Mason to send me to hell. And why I get everyone I care about killed or hurt on a regular basis. The worst thing is having to admit that maybe Aelita is right. Maybe I am an Abomination. Daddy’s boy, just a chip off the old brimstone.
TEN MINUTES LATER I’m talking to Carlos at Bamboo House of Dolls. Tak Shindo’s “Bali Hai” is on the jukebox.
“On a scale of one to ten, how evil do I come off? Let’s say one is Santa baking cookies for orphans and ten is Hitler eating babies with Freddy Krueger.”
“You’re sure not Santa. But I don’t see you dipping babies in ranch dressing. To me how evil you are depends entirely on how much blood you track on my floors.”
“You don’t think I’m trying to trick you into becoming a serial killer or working for the IRS or something else horrible?”
“No. You just need to remember to wipe your feet sometime between when you kill things and when you come in here.”
“That’s good to hear. I trust you because you’re a businessman and I know you wouldn’t want Hannibal Lecter hanging around your bar.”
“What do I care? ’Cause of the business you bring in, I’m going to be able to retire early. If you have to eat a few people to make that happen, I’ll turn my back.”
“You’re a saint. You’re Mother Teresa with a happy hour.”
“I just call ’em like I see ’em. You might be crazy, but you’re just not that evil, bro.”
“Thanks. I just wanted a second opinion.”
“Want something to eat?”
“Maybe just some black beans and rice. And I’m going to need a burrito to go. Spicy enough to melt an engine block. It’s for a friend, not me, so I’ll give you cash for that.”