by Michael Todd
She stood up. “So, I was downstairs in the garage, and I watched Mamacita drive off in her little red sports car with Joshua. And it got me thinking.”
“About Mamacita, or little red sports cars?”
“Neither,” Katie said, shaking her head and sitting down in a chair in front of his desk. “Is there some kind of rule against me owning my own vehicle?”
“No.”
“That’s great!” She smiled and waved her arms. “I would totally be a lot less conspicuous driving around in my own car. I could park normally, and no one would look at me because I hopped out of a souped-up, blacked-out SUV.”
“Yeah, sure.” He slowly nodded his head. “Though I think the car dealer might look at you funny.”
She froze. “Why?”
“Well, dead people don’t usually buy cars.” He shrugged.
Katie dropped her arms into her lap. “Shit.”
“Not sure how you would get it licensed and pay for it,” he continued.
“I’m legally dead.” She put her hand over her eyes. “Which is why my bank account was closed and I had to start hoarding my money in my mattress like a doomsday person.”
“Yep,” he said.
“I’m glad I didn’t go in there and question them.” Katie rolled her eyes. “They would have thought I was insane. Well, all right. Never mind.” She stood up.
“Sorry to burst your bubble,” Korbin called as Katie walked out of his office.
As she walked back to the garage she wondered briefly why the Damned weren’t issued new identities, but put it out of her mind in favor of getting some food into her stomach. She’d do something about it later—maybe start a revolution or something. She jumped in the SUV and headed over to Bootlegger, just happy to get some Italian in her. Sure, her bubble had been burst, but it wasn’t the first time and it wouldn’t be the last, either.
She parked the car and went inside, smiling at all the memories she had of going there years ago. On the inside the place was classy, with wooden accents, deep browns and reds in the carpet, and wallpaper she was sure was original from when they had first opened.
The waitress showed her into the bar and to the right, into a booth that had a picture of the Rat Pack on the wall. The small plaque above it talked about the members of the Rat Pack who had eaten in this booth so long ago.
The place was history. So many famous faces had gone through there, and still did. The first time she had gone, Celine Dion had come in with a couple of other people. She had almost died. They had a lounge area where there was live music, the bar, a dining area, and a club-like place on the other side that was fairly new.
The place where she was sitting was her favorite, though. She could watch everyone and eat delicious food at the same time.
It was the perfect choice for her, especially after all the stress she had been under. For an hour or two she could feel like a normal girl, not a demon-hunting Damned.
Katie smiled and looked down at the menu, her mouth already watering at the selections. There was the normal Italian you would find at restaurants like spaghetti, ravioli, and pizza, but then there was the stuff she loved to come there for.
The specialty salads, the manicotti, the steaks, and her personal favorite, the Scaloppini di Lorraine. She was pretty sure she could live there if they let her.
The problem at that point was deciding what exactly she wanted to get, and how much she could eat while still leaving room for tiramisu, which was her favorite dessert.
I want everything on this menu, Pandora said. I mean, like, everything.
Calm down, there. Katie chuckled.
I am dead serious here, woman. You have got to scratch my itch, Pandora grumped. Why do you think that you were craving it as badly as you were? Now, we definitely have to have steak, the ravioli is a must, and your veal dish—sure, why not?
Katie, for once, had to admit her insufficiency. I can’t eat that much.
Why not? Pandora asked. I’ll just up your metabolism when you start to get full, and poof—you can eat more food. Now, what time does this place close? We have some serious culinary destruction to get working on.
They don’t close. Katie sipped her water. They are open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.
Pandora chuckled. That should be enough time.
Just don’t kill me Seven style, Katie groaned.
What is that? Pandora asked.
It’s this movie about a serial killer who kills people based on the seven deadly sins. One of the guys died due to gluttony, Katie explained.
That’s brilliant, Pandora said. Let me guess, they fed him to death?
Yep, Katie replied. His stomach burst.
Oh, God, Pandora cringed. That sounds like a delightfully terrible torture.
Don’t get all hell-demon on me at a time like this, Katie said. And by the way, I had no idea that you liked Italian food.
Are you kidding me? Pandora scoffed. I spent almost half a century in Italy shacked up with this hot Italian demon, eating this little old lady’s Italian cooking.
The little old lady lived that long? Katie asked.
Well, when she was animated by two horny demons she did, Pandora replied. That’s not the point. The point is, I pretty much ate from sunup to sundown, and then through the night. As soon as you walked into this place I felt like I was back there on the green hills drinking wine, naked in the sun. The food here smells on-point.
I love Italian too, but for a much less vibrant reason. Katie grabbed one of the small square bread pieces they served. My dad brought me here when I was a little girl. He was Italian, or part-Italian. He loved this place, and because he loved it I did too. Seriously, I don’t know why I haven’t come here before now.
It had been the first real thing the two of them had had in common. They both loved Italian food for oddly different reasons, but still…
When the waitress came to the table, she ordered two appetizers and an entrée to start.
Throughout the night the food poured in, plate after plate. The staff couldn’t believe that a tiny thing like Katie could put down that amount of food. Pandora was true to her word, though; as soon as she started to feel the least bit full she would ramp up her metabolism, and suddenly she would be ready to eat all over again.
She didn’t spend money like that often, but she figured there was nothing better to spend it on than wine and Italian food.
When they had tried everything on the menu that they wanted, they moved over to dessert. Luckily Katie was able to get Pandora to agree on a cannoli and tiramisu, and of course the cannoli to go for the boss man.
If she’d let Pandora have her way, Katie would have diabetes by the time she left the place. The staff were very friendly, and boxed up some food for her to take with her.
Katie paid the tab and tipped generously, feeling like she could barely carry her body out of the place at that point.
Her pants were digging into her stomach, and her head felt like it was full of marinara sauce. She had definitely outdone herself.
Chapter 4
Damian walked into the living room and looked around. He nodded at Calvin, who was sitting on the couch drinking a bottle of water, then walked over to the window. From the padlock on the door of the company building, it was clear that even Joshua wasn’t there yet. He hadn’t seen or heard Katie come home the previous night, so he was worried about her.
“Whatcha looking for?” Calvin asked, standing up and stretching.
“I’m looking for Katie,” he answered.
“I think she’s still in her room,” his teammate told him. “I heard her come back in like the middle of the night, but she didn’t stop and talk to anyone—just went straight into her room and closed the door.”
“Huh,” Damian mused. “That’s not like her at all. And apparently Korbin let her go out on her own.”
“No shit?” Calvin exclaimed. “It must have been a fluke.”
“I hope so. I guess I’ll go wake her u
p, make sure that she’s okay.”
Damian walked to her door and knocked as he looked down at his watch. It was six in the morning, and he could hear faint moans coming from inside. He pulled his hand back and stopped, thinking that maybe he’d heard wrong.
He leaned his head against the door and heard another moan come from within. Immediately his cheeks heated; he thought he might have interrupted some private time. He kept listening, though, and realized that the noise expressed more pain than pleasure.
He rattled the door knob, but it was locked. Panic flew through him as the sound became louder. He turned and slammed his shoulder into the door, rattling it almost loose. A groan slipped from his throat when he felt pain throb through him.
He shook his head and did it again, and this time the door flew open. He stumbled in and looked around the room, ready to kill a demon.
Instead Katie was laying on the bed fully clothed, although the top button of her jeans was open. She groaned again and grabbed her stomach, then rolled over onto her side.
“Katie!” Damian exclaimed, kneeling on the bed next to her. “Where does it hurt?”
She patted her stomach…gently.
“Does it hurt to press here?” he asked, pushing his fingers into her abdomen.
“No.” She groaned louder, eyes closed.
“Do you have a fever?” he inquired, looking into her eyes. “Do you have allergies?”
“No,” she responded.
She whispered something, but Damian couldn’t hear her. He leaned closer and asked her to repeat herself, then held his breath, his head by her mouth.
“Too…much,” she whispered.
“Too much what?” he asked.
“Too…much…Italian,” she said, letting out a deep breath.
“Too much… Oh, God.” Damian’s laughter burst out like water breaking a dam. “You ate too much food.”
“It’s not funny!” she grumped, rolling on her back. “I have a food toddler in my belly right now.”
“I just…I… Oh, God,” he repeated, still laughing hysterically. “I thought something had gotten you. I seriously thought there was something wrong, but it was just food. Good Lord, it was just food.”
Damian scooted to the end of the bed and rubbed his face, trying to calm his laughter. It was both funny and tragic at the same time.
He had thought… Well, he had thought a lot of things, but a full belly was not one them. When he had finally calmed himself enough he looked at the dresser, taking note of the two knives, short sword, and pistols lying there. If they were in her room, she had qualified to carry all of them.
“Damn! You shaped up pretty good, young lady,” Damian told her, nodding toward the weapons. “I wasn’t sure if you would ever get certified on them.”
“It wasn’t me.” Katie nodded to him, but credited both him and the others. “I had good teachers.”
“Good,” he said, walking toward the door.
“Except for teaching me when to stop eating Italian,” she said a little louder. “Then you guys are fucking lousy.” She groaned pitifully.
Damian laughed, putting his hand in the air and waving as he walked out of the room. She needed to get the door fixed now.
On the south side of San Ysidro, a town within the San Diego County limits, things weren’t so full of laughter and happiness.
The houses in the neighborhood were closely packed together, most of them mimicking the normal San Diego mission-style homes with their stucco sides and red tile roofs. They were old, the yards unkempt, and police sirens were a regular sound in the area. On this night a black Mercedes drove along the street , windows tinted so dark you couldn’t see into the car. At the end of the block was a house that was just like the others on the outside, but on the inside a drug business flourished.
As the car pulled up in front, the silhouettes of the people scurrying about inside could be seen through the curtains. The driver parked and walked to the rear passenger door, standing in front of it and looking around before opening it. The politician got out of the car and pulled his jacket closed, buttoning it and looking around the neighborhood. He stepped forward and grimaced, picking his foot up and looking at the bottom—he had somehow managed to step in day-old vomit on the sidewalk. He scowled and held his handkerchief to his face as he scraped his shoe off in the grass.
“You’re sure this is the place?” he asked, looking at the driver. The man nodded and started walking toward the front door.
The politician looked around with judgment on his face, then climbed the front steps and waited until the driver had opened the door for him. He nodded at the driver and stepped into the living room. There were several people completely fucked up on drugs lounging around along with the scurrying people, and two goons in front of him. They nodded for him to raise his arms so he did, allowing them to search his body for weapons or wires. When they were satisfied they looked at the driver, who stood at least a foot taller than either of them and was three times their width.
Suffice it to say, no one fucked with the driver at all that day. Instead, they stared up at him as he stood with his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes roving the room. He was not only the driver, but the bodyguard as well. The politician knew no one would fuck with him while his driver was near, no matter how badass they thought they were. The two men led the politician and his guard back to the end of the hallway, then stood aside and allowed the politician to enter.
“Hello, Alejandro,” the politician said.
“The suit.” He chuckled. “El imbécil en el traje. El hombre de T'Chezz.”
“That’s right,” the politician said, walking to the front of Alejandro’s desk. “The asshole in the suit. T’Chezz’s man. You pegged me right.”
“I could smell your demon before you got here,” Alejandro said, his eyes burning red. “And you don’t smell like you are too smart.”
“Smart enough to stay out of T’Chezz’s lair.”
Alejandro laughed. “No you’re not, suit. Please humor me with an explanation of why you have come to my house in broad daylight like this.”
“I need your house.” He looked around. “For summoning. This is directly from him.”
“Why here?” Alejandro asked with a chuckle.
“I’ll give you a cool twenty-five K to not ask questions.”
The drug dealer shrugged and leaned back in his chair.
“Ain’t no shit off my back.”
“It’s ‘skin,’” the politician grumbled angrily.
“Whatever,” Alejandro snarled. “Make it thirty, and we have a deal. I mean, I will have to empty everyone out of this joint, and possibly miss out on business. I mean, it was worth your time to come all the way out here, slumming it in your suit worth more than this whole place.”
The politician clenched his fists and his teeth, trying to hold back his urge to rip the guy’s throat out. He took a deep breath and cracked his neck to calm himself down, and slowly his patented smirk returned to his lips.
“All right, thirty thousand,” he agreed, turning to his driver. “Retrieve the money for this upstanding drug dealer, would you please?
The driver looked at the drug dealer and narrowed his eyes. Alejandro chuckled, obviously not afraid of very much. The driver nodded to the politician and left the room.
“You know what, suit?” The drug dealer stood up and walked around the desk. “Me and you—we ain’t so different.”
The drug dealer put his arm around the politician’s shoulder and laughed as the politician pulled it off. He wiped his suit off and cleared his throat, pulling down on his jacket. He was not amused by the fact that he had to stand there and converse with someone so far below him.
“You see,” Alejandro continued, walking back to his desk as he pointed between the two of them, “we both give people what they want. I’m just a bit more transparent about not giving a shit about their health. You… You try to put on a sly face, but I can read right through it
.”
At that moment the driver walked back into the house carrying a gym bag full of money, which he plopped down on the desk next to the dealer before walking over to the politician. The dealer opened it and whistled, then smiled as he pulled out a big stack of cash. He nodded his head and zipped the bag closed.
“Come on, boys.” He waved to his two heavies, then looked at the politician. “How about the people in the living room? You want me to get them out of here?”
“No,” the politician said, wiping off his hands on his handkerchief and giving the dealer with a fake smile. “I suppose it will help to have them here.”
“I should have asked for thirty-five,” Alejandro grumbled as he walked out of the house. “I’m going to lose some seriously loyal customers on this damn deal.”
The politician rolled his eyes as the dealer slammed the door behind him.
The politician carefully removed his jacket and hung it over a nearby chair, rubbing his hands together and closing his eyes as he settled himself and his demon. Then, with no expression on his face, he turned and stared at the driver, who was standing there with a couple of helpers who had shown up shortly after he walked back in with the gym bag.
“I need you to drag a few of those drugged-out addicts in here and drop them in the center of the floor.” He waved a finger toward the center. “I’ll move the furniture out while you start bringing them over.”
The driver nodded and pushed his helpers, moving them toward the unconscious bodies lying around the house. The politician rolled his sleeves up and moved the furniture back against the walls, then stood back and watched until his men were done.
The helpers moved to the background with fear in their eyes as the politician pulled a small vial of blue dust from his pocket. Slowly he walked a circle clockwise around the bodies, pouring the dust on the floor. When he was done he turned and raised his arms over his head, his palms out and open.
“Nos hie vocare te magnanime daemonium septuaginta duo. Exite nostrae tenebras paravimus corporis tui. Quod petis hic damnatio suscipiendum hoc tecum sumus,” the politician chanted over and over. Each time he spoke, his voice was a little louder.
