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“None of this’ll matter come tomorrow anyway,” he says, trying to sound like feral women sketch on him every day. “A few hours and it’s all over. We’ll own Death, the whole soul trade, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it.”

“What’s tomorrow?” I say.

“That’s when you suck my dick and pray for mercy.”

He’s so fucking dumb I want to hurt him, but that’s even dumber. I can’t kill this idiot no matter how much of my time he wastes because he knows something I don’t.

“It’s a new moon,” says Candy.

She’s holding Crew Cut with one hand and thumbing her phone with the other. Holds it up to show me an app with the phases of the moon. Tomorrow is going to be a dark night.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” I say. “So, what happens tomorrow?”

“Nothing. That’s the beauty of it. That’s why I’m Gandalf and you’re an ant. Ain’t nothing is going to stop what’s coming. The sun rises tomorrow. The sun sets. And when it comes up the next day, we own the whole fucking afterlife. Who dies and when you die is up to us. How much will you pay for that kind of protection? How much you willing to pay for Death to even let your soul pass on to Heaven or Hell and not end up doing shows for us? How much?”

I look at Candy.

“We’ve got what we need.”

I look at Crew Cut.

“You know, as soon as we stop your plan, your friends are going to wonder what happened and they’re going to look at you. The one who disappeared and came back slapped around and cut up. It won’t take them long to figure out that you’re the one who talked. Ask me nicely and I’ll kill you quick before your friends deliver you to a pissed-­off McCarthy.”

For a ­couple of seconds I think he actually considers it. He’s smart enough to know I’m right about him getting blamed, but stupid enough to think that when the time comes, he’ll be able to talk his way out of it.

“I’m not asking you anything,” he says.

I get out the duct tape, blindfold and gag him again.

“Let’s take a ride,” I say.

CANDY HELPS ME manhandle him back into the trunk. We get in the car and drive north on the 101 to the 5 and over the steep five-­mile grade of the Grapevine. Along a dark stretch of road between nowhere and nothing, we dump Crew Cut into a ditch. Maybe a trucker will find him. Maybe the coyotes. Who cares which?

It’s an hour back to L.A. Plenty of time to smoke and think.

“Is this all there is?”

“Isn’t it enough?” says Candy.

“I mean, for these White Light knuckleheads to come up with a plan like this. To put all the pieces together. They had help from someone. I swear, there’s something we’re missing.”

“Worry about that later, Sherlock. We have to figure out what’s happening tomorrow night.”

“I know who can help us.”

“Who are we kidnapping next?”

“No one. I’m talking about civilized ­people.”

Candy doesn’t say anything for a while.

“What am I suppose to tell Julie about tonight? I want to be like her, but . . .”

“But you keep ending up more like me?”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe that’s more my fault than yours. I keep bringing you into these things.”