Each of those shimmering tubes contains a piece of a person.
What I mean is, they’re using human souls to light their love shack. I didn’t think I could hate these assholes more, but they just hit a level of disgust a notch below where I’d consider locking all the doors and setting the Ibis on fire. But this isn’t the time or place for a lecture on Buddha-like compassion for all living things, and I’m not the person to give it. My meditation mantra for the next few minutes is “Ask some questions. Get some answers. And get out before I’m surrounded by a mountain of ground chuck and have to fight my way out.”
I zip up the parka and walk around, looking for any familiar faces. Of course, the only ones I spot are the Rat Pack that used to go slumming at Bamboo House. “Used to” because we had a disagreement and I sent them home from the club naked and broke. I also used a little hoodoo to make one of them think I was pulling his skin off. Like Candy said, sometimes I get mad and don’t think. Anyway, the kid got a little bit of revenge. Turns out, he was the nephew of Nasrudin Hodja, grand CEO of all the Cold Cases on the planet. That’s why I ended up with a hit out on me. Saragossa Blackburn calmed Hodja down, but I never formally made up with the nephew. I suppose now’s as good a time as any.
I head over to their table near, but not in, one of the roped-off VIP areas. I don’t want to surprise the nephew and make him bolt. I get into his line of sight so he sees me coming. He starts to get up and his friends look around. I talk fast.
“Relax, boys. I’m not here looking for trouble. I just want to talk. I might even be able to do you a favor.”
“We don’t want any favors from you,” says the nephew.
“Sure you do. You can’t be moving many souls these days, not with people refusing to die. Inventory must be stacking up. I’m trying to change that. Come on, admit it. You love dead people. That’s all I’m looking to do. Help people die again.”
“What do you think we have to do with that?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I’m here. Mind if I join you?”
I don’t wait for anyone to answer. I pull up an ice chair and sit down. Even through the parka my ass starts freezing.
“So,” I say. “What have you heard? What do you know? Any ideas who’s fucking with the dead? You have to have some theories.”
The nephew pours himself a glass of champagne I’ve never heard of. I’m guessing that puts it out of my price range.
He says, “Isn’t it obvious? It’s an attack on us. On our business. Hell, our whole way of life.”
“You think tens of thousands of people aren’t dying just to spite you?”
“Think about it. When people aren’t afraid of dying, they don’t need new souls. Meanwhile, idiots come to us wanting to sell, but what are we going to do with the merchandise? We have souls going bad on the shelves.”
“Souls have an expiration date?”
“Everything has an expiration date.”
“What happens to a soul when it gets moldy?”
“I couldn’t care less. All I know is it costs us money.”
“You think that’s what this is all about? Money?”
“What else?”
“Revenge, maybe,” says one of the nephew’s idiot friends. He’s a creepy kid with a million-dollar pompadour and a little John Waters pencil-thin mustache. What works on an eccentric movie director just makes the kid look like an Arkansas pedophile.
I say, “What kind of revenge?,” reach across the table, and take the kid’s champagne.
“What I mean is you. Some of us thought you were using your angel bullshit to get back at us for . . . you know.”
“Trying to shoot me and almost killing a friend of mine?”
“Yeah.”
The champagne is good, but, oops, what a clod I am. I splash some on the table and set the glass on top of it.
“Don’t be stupid. If I was looking for revenge, I wouldn’t involve thousands of innocent morons. Plus, I’d have cut all your throats by now.”
“Don’t threaten us,” says the nephew. “My uncle would still like your balls on his wall.”
“Let him know that I’d be happy to come by and tea-bag any furniture he wants, but that’s a little off topic. Let’s all concentrate on the real question. What’s going on and who’s doing it?”