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I say, “Right on the money,” and put my last twenty on the bar.

Carlos disappears for a couple of minutes. I’m sitting quietly, trying to listen to the music, but it’s too loud, and anyway, my brain is running on overd

rive trying to process the last few hours.

I’m going to die soon unless I can convince the one asshole in the world who knows how to fix me that I’m not going to kill him when he’s through. It doesn’t help that I had a somewhat colorful reputation before I died. And it helps even less that all Howard has seen me do since I’ve been back is kick the shit out of Roger and blow holes in Bruno. If I was him, I wouldn’t trust me either. So how do I get him to work some magic on me? What I need is a heavyweight psychic. Someone who can get in Howard’s mind and convince him that fixing me is the best idea he’s ever had. And then I need Howard’s equipment. Fuck. Even if I took him back to Sandoval’s house, could we get everything we need before a herd of Wormwood bulls came charging inside, shooting and ruining everything?

I can’t do it. I can’t figure a way out of this. I’m fucked.

I’m going to die again. And this time my body will be reduced to bloody chum, so there’s no putting me back inside it. I might already be starting to rot.

My right index finger taps nervously on the twenty on the bar. I stop it and look at my hand. Did I get all of Bruno’s blood off? I swear my fingertips look darker. I remember the marks on my sides and back I saw in the bathroom mirror. Were those bruises or lividity? I swear, my skin feels looser, like if I gave it a yank, it would come apart like cotton candy. I touch my stomach. The bullet wound feels closed, but I’m not sure anymore. If I stood up too quickly, would it rip open again? If it did, I’m sure I could make it through the crowd and outside, but why? Just so I can bleed out in the gutter?

No. This isn’t getting me anywhere. I need to slow down and think this through again. Or do I? It might be time to admit that I fucked up in a way there’s no getting around. I’ve died before. I’ve gone to Hell before. What’s the big deal? At least this time I know that Candy and Max Overdrive are doing fine. Even Kasabian is doing all right. Maybe I just need to stop, catch my breath, and appreciate the moment. I still have twenty dollars. If I nurse a couple of whiskies like a rookie, I can make them last an hour. This is probably my last time in Bamboo House of Dolls. I might as well enjoy the moment.

Carlos comes back with my drink and I slide the twenty to him. He picks it up, looks it over, and sets it back down again.

Great. Sinclair slipped me a counterfeit bill. I can’t even get a decent drink before I turn into cold beef stew.

I start to get up when Carlos says, “This is the second time you’re in here and you still haven’t said hello properly.”

He slides the bill back to me. I don’t touch it.

I say, “What’s the right way to say hello?”

He shakes his head, like he’s disappointed he can’t teach a mollusk to play fetch.

“Asshole, the right way is, ‘Hello, Carlos. Pour me an Aqua Regia.’”

I stare at him.

“How the hell did you know?”

He pinches my cheek.

“The pretty-boy face. Whenever you want to look like regular people, you always use that same stupid face. Get rid of it, man. It’s giving me the willies.”

“I can’t. I don’t want people to know I’m back. I fucked up and might not be around too much longer.”

Someone down the bar signals for a refill. Carlos shoves two beers in front of him and says, “Don’t bother me again.”

When he comes back over he says, “Were you really dead all this time?”

“Yeah.”

He leans in closer, whispering.

“Look, if someone is after you, you can always hide in back.”

I take a sip of my drink.

“It’s not like that. I’m back but, you see, I’m only fifty percent alive. If I don’t fix things, I’m going to be a hundred percent dead again.”

Carlos stands back and glances around the room.

“You’re nothing but trouble, aren’t you?”

“Mom says I’m her special little angel.”