I remembered the ghost dogs that attacked me when I tried to summon Jamal. “Yeah, I can see that. A guide then. More Hershey bars?”
Mr. Clean shook his head. “No, this is more along the lines of a fatted calf, once a month.”
“Pizza, once a year.”
“Extra-large Texas on the solstices.”
“Is that the one with refried beans and salsa?”
“Yeah.”
“Done.”
The spell turned out to be difficult. It was probably the most complex magic I’d ever tried, and it took me the rest of the day to get the knack of it. Mr. Clean, I had to admit, was a big help, but he wasn’t very nice about it. Once I had the basics down, I picked a quotation for it and ran through the incantations until the pattern imprinted itself in my mind.
The guide was a lot easier. “When you arrive, call Honey,” said Mr. Clean. “She owes me a favor.”
“I can use my cell phone there?”
Mr. Clean glowered at me, his eyebrows bunching like two charging caterpillars head-butting each other. “No. Just call her name. Put some juice into it.”
“Who is she?”
“A friend of mine,” answered Mr. Clean. That’s all he would say, but his eyes twinkled. That made me nervous.
I still had Anton following Adan around town, and it was getting late. Mr. Clean said it would be best to cross into the Between during the daytime.
“There’s daytime in the Between? I assumed, you know, shadow world, it was probably always night. Maybe twilight, that sort of thing.”
“I would ask you not to be daft,” offered Mr. Clean, “but I know you can’t help it. As I have already told you, the Between is an analog of this world.”
“Analog, yeah, so it’s like an analogy.”
“It’s not funny anymore, Dominica,” said Mr. Clean.
I called Anton to find out where he was, and then met him in the parking lot at Gold’s Gym. Adan was inside working out, and Anton was eating a chili dog he’d bought from a street vendor.
“I didn’t lose him, Domino,” he told me when I pulled up. “And he didn’t see me.”
“That’s good, Anton. Where has he been?”
Anton shrugged. “We were at mall. He was looking at the suits, but I don’t think he bought them. Then we come here.” He nodded to the gym. “He goes in maybe twenty minutes ago.”
“Did he meet anyone?”
“No, he is alone when he goes in. I didn’t follow him in there, because I thought he would spot me.”
Good thing, too. Anton wouldn’t exactly blend in at the fitness club.
“Okay, nice work, Anton,” I said, slipping him a hundred. “Keep this quiet and get yourself another hot dog, on me.”
Anton smiled and nodded. “Thanks, Domino. It’s pretty fucking good.” He jerked the hand holding a napkin over his shoulder. “You want me to get you one?”
I declined, and Anton drove away in his Monte Carlo. I saw him pull up by the vendor and order two more hot dogs like he was at the drive-through.
I settled back in my seat and watched the gym, where Adan was lifting, treading or stepping his way to cardiovascular fitness. Or pretending to—his father’s magic probably had more to do with his delicious figure than the elliptical trainer.
While I waited for Adan to finish his workout, I looked for a way to fit this new development into my theory. Papa Danwe wanted to make a move against Rashan’s outfit. He summoned a spirit from the Beyond, or maybe the spirit contacted him. The Haitian made a deal, just like I bartered with Mr. Clean. He agreed to help the spirit possess a host in the physical world, and loaned out his soul jar so the spirit could do some remodeling on its host. Papa Danwe got to pick the host—Rashan’s son—and the ritual victims. The spirit was okay with that—it needed victims with some juice, and at least in L.A., that meant gangsters. It also needed a host who could get close to connected guys. Adan had to look like a pretty good candidate. Papa Danwe also got a pledge from the spirit to back him when he moved against Rashan. He got a powerful ally deep inside his enemy’s organization.
It fit pretty well—hell, it was right out of the evil wizard’s playbook. It matched what Jamal told me, too. He’d said the killer was flowing juice from the Beyond. That was the same reason Mr. Clean had ruled out sorcerous possession. A sorcerer’s magic comes from this world, he’d said. I’d been wrong—the killer couldn’t have been a sorcerer. In fact, the killer couldn’t have been anything other than a spirit from the Beyond.
I sat there for thirty minutes, wondering what I was doing. I didn’t really want to leave Adan alone, on the off chance the spirit might stop by for a visit. But I couldn’t be in two places at once. For a moment, I regretted sending Anton home. I could have kept him on Adan—he seemed to have done an okay job of it, despite the constant distractions provided by junk food. But if the spirit wasn’t coming, there wasn’t much point in it. And if the spirit did come, I knew Anton would just get himself killed. I really didn’t need to see him without his skin.
The simple fact was that I couldn’t watch Adan twenty-four hours a day. The only way I could stop the possessions and derail Papa Danwe’s scheme was to cross into the Between and destroy the spirit. And I didn’t like my chances at that if I stayed up all night following Adan around. I had to sleep, and Adan would have to take care of himself for a while. I took one last look at the gym, then pulled out of the parking lot and headed home.
The next morning, I prepared myself to cross over into the shadow world. Mr. Clean explained that I wouldn’t be taking anything with me but me, so this really just amounted to a few minutes in the bathroom. Then I sank into my recliner in the living room, relaxed my body and mind, closed my eyes and worked my magic.
“I have harnessed the shadows that stride from world to world to sow death and madness,” I said, and unleashed the juice.
I opened my eyes and found myself sitting in my recliner in the living room. The spell had worked, though. There was no moment of disorientation, and no precious seconds were lost thinking the spell had failed.
The colors in my living room were all wrong, mainly in that there weren’t enough of them. Everything had a kind of washed-out yellow tint, like an old sepia-tone photograph.
Plus, there was an old woman screaming in my face and trying to strangle me.
“Jumpin’ Jesus!” I yelled, for the first time since I was eleven. I grabbed the bony wrists and shoved the crone away from me. She flew across the room and landed in my fichus tree, a tangle of spindly limbs both human and arboreal. At first, I was surprised at my own strength, but then I realized I’d put a little juice behind the shove. Apparently, the effect was magnified in this place.
The woman was moaning and untangling herself from the tree. She looked to be at least eighty, and her clothes were elegant Jackie-O specials from the early sixties. Her hair was a chaotic white halo around her skeletal head, and her eyes might have been a pale blue if everything hadn’t been painted in some variation of yellow or brown.
And she was cursing me. I was a slob. I was inconsiderate. I came in at all hours of the night and woke her up. I brought men into her home and made her watch the unspeakable things I did to them. And so on. I wasn’t sure why she had to watch.
“Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know I was sharing my condo with a ghost.”
The woman stood up and straightened her dress. She sniffed disdainfully—of course, more sniffing. “I was here a long time before you, young lady. I was here before there were any of these wretched condominiums in the building.”
“Well, yeah, I can see that now. Anyway, like I said, sorry. What’s your name?”
“Mrs. Robert Dawson,” she said haughtily. I suspected she’d say everything haughtily or disdainfully, at least when she was talking to me. “My Christian name is Margaret, but my friends call me Maggie. You may call me Mrs. Dawson.”
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Dawson. I’m Dominica Riley. Sorry about throwing you into the tree.
”
“I know who you are. I’ve been living with you since you began squatting in my home. In my day, there were no wet-backs in this neighborhood unless they were cleaning house or tending the lawn.”
Great. I was sharing my condo with Maggie the Bigoted Ghost. She’d probably fit right in on the playground in Crenshaw. “Yeah, well, nothing much has changed. These days it’s mostly white folks with a few of us gangsters to add some color.”
“It’s tragic,” she said. “In my day, we kept the criminal riffraff in the ghettos where they belong.”
“Yeah, we’ve gotten uppity, lady. Anyway, now I know you’re here, I’ll try to be a little more considerate. I can’t make any promises about the men, though.”
“Flowers,” said Mrs. Dawson.
“Huh?”
“You could brighten the place with some flowers, Miss Riley. It’s so terribly drab, what you’ve done with this place.”
I looked around the washed-out living room. “Yeah,” I said, “something in a nice yellow, I think. Tulips or carnations, perhaps.”
“That would be lovely.”
I stared hard at her, but there was no trace of sarcasm on her wrinkled face. I shrugged. “Done, first thing when I get back. Right now, though, I have some business. Nice meeting you.”
“Goodbye, Miss Riley,” she said, and sniffed. Jesus.
I left the building and walked out onto the sun-bleached street. It looked like my neighborhood, like L.A., just with all the color sucked out of it. It looked and felt dry, lifeless—more so than usual, I mean.
“Honey?” I said, putting a little juice into it. Nothing happened. I sat down on the steps in front of my building to wait.
The streets were empty, deserted. I almost expected to see a tumbleweed roll by. There were no cars, which was especially strange for L.A. Occasionally I saw a shadow move in a window or a furtive form dart out of sight around a corner. Ghosts, probably, I couldn’t be sure. It was quiet. No sounds of traffic, no birds singing, no children laughing or howling miserably. The only sound was a dry wind blowing, though the fronds of the palm trees lining the street were utterly still. A pale mist or fog clung to the ground and obscured my view of the streets beyond a couple hundred feet.
“Who are you?” a voice asked. It was clear, musical, like a wind chime dancing in the breeze. I looked around and saw…nothing.
“Over here,” the voice said. I craned my neck in the direction of the sound. Behind my right shoulder was a tiny woman, about eight inches tall, hovering in the air near my ear. Dragonfly wings were a hummingbird blur at her back. She was cute, in an early Meg Ryan kind of way—short ruff of blond curls, upturned nose, impish mouth, slender frame and golden skin. She was also naked.
“Honey?” I asked. I had to admit, she was a little hottie. Small, pert breasts—well, really small, but I mean proportionally—toned belly, gently curving hips and long legs, again proportionally.
“Yeah, that’s me,” she said in her wind-chime voice. “Who’re you?” She put her hands on her hips in a Peter Pan pose and thrust her chest out. She was irritatingly perky.
“Dominica Riley,” I said. “You can call me Domino. I’m Abishanizad’s, uh, master, mistress, whatever.” I offered my hand to shake and then, feeling stupid, modified it to a kind of pull-my-finger gesture. Honey just looked at me.
“Abby, huh? I was wondering where he’d been. You got him in a lamp?”
“TV,” I said.
“Nice. More to do in there than a lamp, I guess. Still boring, though.”
“Yeah, so he says.”
“So what do you want?” Honey alighted on my knee and sat down.
“Mr. Clean—I mean, Abby—says you owe him a favor. I need a guide.”
Honey laughed. “Mr. Clean, I like that. Not very original, but I bet it pisses him off.”
I nodded and smiled.
“Okay, I’ll be your guide. That’ll clear my debt to Mr. Clean. I’m an excellent guide.” She looked me up and down—as well as she could, perched on my knee—and winked. “What are you going to do for me?”
I blushed. “I thought since you owed Mr. Clean, I wouldn’t have to do anything.”
Honey shook her head, tossing those golden curls across her face. “Nope, doesn’t work that way. If I’m your guide, I’m straight with the jinn. But I’m still doing you a favor, so you have to do something for me.”
“Damn,” I said, “all y’all work this way?”
“Yeah, pretty much.”
“You like chocolate?”
“What girl doesn’t like chocolate? Anyway, that’s not going to cut it. Like for like. I’ll show you around the Between, but you have to help me cross into Arcadia.”
I waited, on the same principle by which I try not to ask Mr. Clean stupid questions when he says something like this.
“Arcadia. The mortal world. Your world.”
“Can’t you cross over on your own?” I asked. “You know, fairy circles, Midsummer Night…”
“Not anymore. Now I need help. So will you?”
“You’re not going to possess anyone, are you?”
“Of course not! I’m a piskie. We don’t do that.”
“A pixie?”
Honey frowned. “Piskie,” she corrected.
“Honey, are you dyslexic?”
“No, the word is piskie. You meatheads corrupted it, started calling us pixies.” She huffed prettily. “It’s offensive and insensitive.”
“Okay, piskie then. All right, if you promise not to possess anyone, or, you know, do evil, I’ll help you cross over.” I’m not a complete airhead, and I was feeling a little nervous about this deal. But as far as I knew, pixies—I mean piskies—were friendly fairy spirits that cleaned your house and kept your milk fresh. What harm could it do?
“Done,” she said with a little bob of her head. I wondered why I couldn’t have gotten Honey as a familiar. Smaller than Barbara Eden, sure, but better than having Mr. Clean in my TV.
“I need to go to Brentwood,” I said. I gave her Adan’s address.
“Just off Wilshire?” Honey asked. “I know where that is. Let’s go. Just keep your head down and try not to look like a tourist.” I got up and started down the sidewalk, Honey buzzing along beside me over my shoulder.
“So, Honey,” I said, “are you always, you know, naked?”
“Yeah, why? Does it bother you? Piskies can’t wear clothes. They interfere with our magic, can’t fly. I can wear fig leaves or garlands, if you want.”
I looked at her. She had that concerned, does-this-outfit-make-me-look-fat expression women sometimes get when we’re feeling a little self-conscious.
“No, Honey,” I said quickly. “You look great. I was just wondering. You’re very pretty.”
She smiled. “Thanks! People say I look like Meg Ryan.”
“Yeah, I bet you get that a lot.”
I was thinking it was going to take a while to get to Brentwood without wheels when we disappeared into the mist and the world shifted. I found myself standing in front of Adan’s building.
“Cool,” I said.
“Yeah, things are a little different here. That’s why you need a guide.”
Just as there were no cars in the Between, neither were there any locks. We went in the front door and climbed the stairs to a short hallway with access to the two second-floor lofts.
“Any magical defenses will still be in place,” Honey warned.
“It’s okay,” I said. “I’m authorized.”
Standing in front of the door to Adan’s loft, I took a deep breath. I hoped I was authorized. I could bypass all the other wards the outfit used, but I’d never tried to break into Adan’s home before. I turned the knob and pressed on the door. It swung open and we went in.
The apartment was deserted. It was the usual L.A. loft, which is to say fake but trendy. The walls were bare concrete and brick, and the floors were dark hardwood. The wall to our left was comprised entirely of floo
r-to-ceiling windows, and exposed ductwork hung silent above our heads. It was one large room dominated by an open living area, with a small kitchen tucked in one corner. Metal stairs ran along the far wall to a bedroom loft.
I searched the place and found no signs that it was inhabited by an evil spirit. I climbed up to the loft and looked under the bed. I searched the closet and checked the tiny bathroom. I tossed Adan’s underwear drawer and rummaged in the table beside his bed. Then I went back downstairs.
“Didn’t find what you came for?” asked Honey. She turned away from the wall mirror by the door and flew over to meet me.
I looked at the mirror and back at Honey. “Were you checking yourself out?”
“No,” she lied. “Didn’t find what you came for?”
“No,” I said. “But I think I know where to look.”
In the Between, the Cannibal Club looked much as it did in the real world, but yellower. There were a lot of Goth kids standing in line outside the door—that seemed to be a constant on both planes of existence.
“Overdoses and suicides,” Honey said and shuddered.
I looked at the ghosts. “They off themselves and then come to the club to stand in line? Don’t they have anyone to haunt?”
“Absentee parents, dead-end jobs, empty relationships—they probably felt like ghosts even before they killed themselves.”
I turned to Honey and arched an eyebrow.
“Sometimes I read magazines to pass the time. Newsweek had an article.”
I recognized one of the ghosts standing near the front of the line. It was the blond kid who’d been following me in the Ford Taurus.
“Hey, kid,” I said, walking over to him, “small world.” He didn’t respond, just continued staring straight ahead. I did the usual battery of tests—hand waved in front of the eyes, arm pinch, sharp poke in the ribs—and got nothing.
“He probably doesn’t even know you’re there,” Honey said.
“No way I can get him to talk to me?”
Honey shrugged. I gave it one last shot, clapping my hands in his face. No reaction.
We went inside. The interior of the club was devoid of ghosts. It was also an almost uniform brown, the color of an old cigar. That seemed to be the best this world could muster when blacks were called for.
Mob Rules Page 13
