The Getaway God (Sandman Slim 6)

I pick Mason up and set him on his bunk. He licks the finger where I cut him.

“See you tomorrow,” I say.

“I can’t wait, Sunshine.”

Bloody Hellion rain drips off me and covers the floor of Mason’s cell. With my finger, I make up a scary-­looking nonsense hoodoo circle and shove Mason into it. He slips and falls in the center just as Wells and the guards burst into the room. I’m out through a shadow by then. They’ll find the circle and blame Mason for screwing the door and the cameras. One small consolation at the end of a shitty night.

I CAN’T STAND the idea of going home and listening to Kasabian whimper downstairs, so I head to Bamboo House of Dolls. I stand outside for a minute, letting the L.A. monsoon wash the last of the bloody Hellion rain out of my clothes.

Nothing but a skeleton crew in the bar. Carlos and a dozen or so hard-­core drinkers. All Lurkers and Sub Rosa. Except for one.

“Jimmy,” she says. “I was wondering if I’d see you here.”

Brigitte comes over and kisses me on the cheek. She feels warm after being out in the rain and smells good after being Downtown. For a second, it’s like something normal. Two friends running into each other at a favorite bar. But nothing is normal now and we both know it, though neither of us says anything.

“Nice to see you too. Buy you another martini?”

She empties her glass and sets it down on the bar.

“You must. I am bereft of drink.”

Carlos comes over and takes a ­couple of light-­beer bottles off the bar.

“The evening rush,” he says, raising a hand to the nearly empty room. “I’m grateful for the few brave souls, but all anyone wants is beer and shots. If this kind lady hadn’t ordered an actual drink, I would have drowned myself in the maraschino cherries.”

“You have cherries and I didn’t get one?” says Brigitte.

“You don’t put cherries in a martini.”

“I do.”

He shrugs.

“The customer is always right, even if what they want is wrong.”

He looks at me.

“The usual for you?”

“Some of the red stuff, yeah. I need to wash the taste of Hellion wine out of my mouth.”

Carlos comes back in a minute with Brigitte’s junior high martini and pours me a shot of Aqua Regia.

“I’m sorry to tell you, but this is my last bottle. Can you get any more?”

First floods and now no booze. Another bad omen. I can’t go drinkless at the apocalypse, but why bother raiding some Hellion’s liquor cabinet if we only have a ­couple of days to live?

I say, “I’ll look into it.”

Carlos mixes himself a manhattan and we all drink together.

Brigitte stares at her drink for a minute.

“You’ve been to Hell again, I take it?”

“Just got back.”

Carlos says, “The way you talk about it. Like taking the bus to Westwood.”