Page 23

“Really, Mr. Stark. I was hoping to talk to you specially about something besides the flood,” says Moore.

“What’s that?”

“Your wild-­blue-­yonder contract.”

“Why do you think I have one of those?”

He pats me on the shoulder and I consider cutting off his hand.

“Because you’re famous and L.A.’s famous always have a backup plan.”

“What’s a wild-­blue-­yonder contract?” says Jeremy.

What do I tell him? Just because he dates a Lyph doesn’t mean he knows how things are. How ­people with enough pull, fame, or infamy can get contracts that bind their souls to Earth so that when they die they don’t have to go on to the afterlife. And let’s face it, for ­people in L.A. that usually means Hell and they know it, and want to put if off for as long as possible. I really can’t blame them. The contracts are handled by talent agencies specializing in ghosts. You want Jim Morrison or Marilyn Monroe to croon “Happy Birthday” at your next party? Come up with the cash and they can do a duet with James Dean or Jayne Mansfield. It’s not just show-­biz types, though. Plenty of bankers, politicians, crooks, and cops don’t want to head Downtown too soon. A wild-­blue-­yonder contract is Heaven for mama’s boys.

Moore looks at me, waiting to see if I’m going to answer the question. I’m not sure what to tell Jeremy.

“It’s a death deal for chickenshits. When you die, you stay here and the company that sold you the contract can send you anywhere they want to be a performing monkey. Mostly, the contracts go to the famous so rich assholes can mingle with them over finger sandwiches.”

“Cool,” says Jeremy. “Can I get one?”

“Anyone can get one,” says Moore.

I tuck the black blade in my waistband. I’m not going to need it with this band of cutthroats.

“Yeah, but if you’re not an A-­list celebrity, you’ll probably end up being Mickey Cohen’s towel boy. Not all ghosts are born equal, are they, Moore?”

“Oh,” Jeremy says. “Wait—­who’s Mickey Cohen?”

“A notorious ventriloquist. His dummy worked for Murder Incorporated.”

Jeremy and Courtney look at each other.

“This doesn’t sound like something for us.”

Moore looks a little uncomfortable confronted by actual ­people who see the scam for what it is.

“Smart,” I say. “Don’t let anyone talk you into one.”

“We won’t,” says Courtney. Then to Moore, “What did I tell you? A big sack of grump.”

She and Jeremy take their movie and head off, leaving me alone with Moore.

“You’re not really a reporter, are you?”

He looks away and back and does the grin again. I wonder what he’d look like with no lips?

“That’s not entirely true. I have friends at the Times. Sometimes I bring them stories and they slip me a little something.”

“But that’s not what you’re really about.”

“I work with a talent group. One of the biggest postlife artist agencies in the world.”

“And you want to offer me a contract.”

“Why not? A lot of Sub Rosas have them. And you’re right about A-­listers versus everybody else. But I can guarantee you that you’d be on the A-­list of A-­lists. I mean, everyone wants to meet Lucifer . . . even an ex-­Lucifer.”

I move faster than he can react, dragging him around the side of the building and shoving him up against the Dumpster. I tap the black blade against the crotch of his jeans, right under his balls.