The Getaway God (Sandman Slim 6)

I go from saw to saw and turn them off. The sound is giving me a headache.

“Yeah.”

“What were they . . . ?”

“It was a sacrifice to one of their idiot Angra gods.”

“Couldn’t they have just had a bake sale?”

I walk over and put my hand on her gun, lowering it to her side. I put my arm around her. I haven’t seen her this freaked out before. She presses against me.

I say, “Wells is going to be pissed.”

She nods.

“He can’t blame you for this insanity.”

“Wells blames me for tooth decay. He can sure blame me for this. But maybe there’s something I can do. Help me find a cooler and some dry ice.”

There’s a stack of Styrofoam coolers just outside the freezer. I grab one and Candy gets plastic packets of dry ice. We go back into the cooler. I have to work fast. Someone’s called the cops by now. For all I know, one of the workers has a pistol in the back of their truck. There’s a lot of that going around these days. When we get back to the suicide circle, I tell Candy to go back and guard the door.

“You just don’t want me to see you do it,” she says.

“You’re right. But I also want you to guard the door.”

“Okay.”

She runs back to the freezer entrance. I turn on one of the meat saws and get to work. It doesn’t take long. Mr. Charger did the hard part himself. All I have to do is get through some gristle and the spinal cord so I can twist his head all the way off.

When I do, I put it in the cooler and pack ice around it.

Candy shakes her head when she sees me with the container.

“I’ve dated some messed-­up ­people in my time.”

“Write ‘Dear Abby.’ Let’s get out of here.”

“Let’s.”

There’s a nice dark shadow by a stack of boxes on the loading dock. I start to pull Candy through and stop.

“What you said before. Eight maids and you. That’s a nine-­way. Where am I in all this?”

“That’s your present. You get to watch.”

“I can see it for free on the Web.”

“I’m better than the Web.”

“I’ll give you that. But you’re still coming out ahead on this deal. Better get me that pointy hat so I won’t feel cheated.”

She takes my hand.

“You got it, Jingles.”

We step into a shadow and come out in the Golden Vigil’s new L.A. headquarters, right off the eight hole of the Wilshire Golf Club. They eminent-­domained the place right out from under the blue bloods, paying ten cents on the dollar, for what it’s worth. It’s the first time I ever really respected the Vigil. Marshals and Vigil witch doctors still dress up in pricy sports clothes and play round after round of existential golf on the grounds. No one keeps score, but someone has to be out on the greens keeping up the appearance that the club is still just a place for rich morons to blow an afternoon. Like maybe none of the locals noticed the surplus Iraq War ASVs, enough lab gear to restart the Manhattan Project, and about a hundred blacked-­out bulletproof vans sneaking into the club.

A man is waiting for me inside the clubhouse. He’s wearing a black suit and skinny tie, with a flag pin on the lapel. He looks like a mortician’s idea of a high school principal.