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“She says she’s got it under control. She took a ­couple of turns to lose the tail, then got behind the car. Now she’s following them.”

“Good for her. I hope she doesn’t do anything stupid.”

“So says the man who went into Death Rides a Horse like it was Omaha Beach. I might be able to cover you on what happened outside of Evermore Creatives, but the club? That’s going to be all over town.”

“It was a lot of noise, but no one got hurt.”

“You cut a guy’s arm off.”

“He’s a vampire. It’ll grow back. And we got a lot of useful information. Plus these.” I hold up the tickets.

“I agree. All I’m saying is that Julie might question the approach.”

“I’ll send Tykho roses and a pint of O negative. She’ll get over it.”

Candy blows on her coffee, sips it.

“Do you think it’s a good idea for us to use those fight tickets without backup?”

“Probably. But that’s half the fun.”

“Seriously, what are we going to do?”

“Vidocq and Allegra looked bored last time I saw them. Maybe they’d like a night out.”

“Goody. I’ll call them.”

“Tell Vidocq to bring some potions. I don’t know what the crowd is going to be like tonight. We might need to leave quickly.”

“No arm cutting, please.”

“I’m on my best behavior.”

“Be better than best. Be super best.”

“I’m going to need another drink for that.”

I PICK ALLEGRA and Vidocq up and we head out to the address on the tickets.

Turns out the space is in the old Warehouse District, which L.A. now insists on calling the Art District. I’ve never seen any art this way, but it makes perfect sense that the city would shove whatever artists it has left out to the land of hauling companies, cold-­storage facilities, and train depots.

The address is a two-­story warehouse with several outbuildings off Sixth Street, across the L.A. River, near the viaduct on South Mission Road. There are railroad tracks on one side and a wasteland of faceless storage companies and trucks on the other. If there are any artists around, they’re keeping a low profile—­like subterranean.

The warehouse has a large parking lot, but cars spill out all up and down the length of Mission Road. The cars are a mix of old numbers like the Crown Vic and spit-­and-­polished Caddys and Porsches. There’s even a Rolls-­Royce Silver Cloud, being babysat by a chauffeur with a bulge under his jacket like he’s got a grenade launcher in there.

Outside the warehouse is a mix of methed-­up bikers and street punks with L.A.’s young, beautiful, and stupidly wealthy. The kind of ­people who open Fair Trade cupcake shops and art galleries with names like Paradigm. There are Sub Rosas in both the biker and artisanal asshole groups. I keep my head down and don’t meet anyone’s eye. Last thing I want tonight is to be recognized before I even get inside.

My instincts were right about one thing: it was smart to leave my weapons in the trunk of the Crown Vic. Everyone going into the warehouse gets a pat-­down. A guy with tattoos on his face and a graying jarhead crew cut frisks Vidocq. When he hears something clink, he opens the Frenchman’s coat. Sewn inside are dozens of small pockets for the potions he always carries.

“What the hell are those?” says the crew cut.

“I have allergies,” Vidocq says.

Crew Cut gives him a look, grabs a bottle at random, and sniffs it. He makes a face like a baboon just shit in his mouth.

“What is that stuff?” he says.

“Cobra bile,” says Vidocq. “Very good for digestion.”