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“We should see about getting you a driver’s license.”

“I told you. I can’t get docs like that.”

“I didn’t say it would be real. I’m sure the Vigil can put some papers together for you. Maybe you can even open a checking account.”

“Yes, that’s what I came back from Hell for. Overdraft fees.”

“I’ll see you this afternoon.”

SHE’S RIGHT ABOUT the Crown Vic. It’s big and it’s comfortable, painted a highly forgettable gray. With its cop suspension, it even handles well.

It’s after dark. Candy and I are sitting in the eight-­thousand block of Wonderland Avenue in Laurel Canyon not doing a goddamn thing. I want to play a new off-­the-­board bootleg of Skull Valley Sheep Kill’s last show at the Whisky a Go Go on the stereo, but Candy got there ahead of me and we’re listening to migraine-­inducing noise from Tokyo. It’s a band called Babymetal. A trio of chirpy girl singers cheerleading their way over razor fast metal riffs. They sound like Britney Spears on helium backed by Slayer.

I reach for the volume knob.

“Touch that and you’re a dead man,” says Candy.

“I just want to check in with Kasabian.”

“Fine. You have my permission to turn down the stereo for the duration of your call. Then it goes right back up again.”

“You’re just torturing me. It’s the singing robot sunglasses all over again.”

She frowns.

“I’d forgotten about those. They were fun to play with when you had a hangover. I wonder whatever happened to them?”

“If there’s justice in the universe, they’re in Tartarus.”

“Just make your call, Pinkie Pie. The best song is coming up.”

I dial Kasabian and he answers with his usual charm.

“What?”

“I wanted to know how things are going with our guest. You keeping an eye on him?”

“He’s right here talking to Maria, our friendly neighborhood witch.”

“You opened the store?”

“Don’t whine. We’ve been open so little ­people are lined up. We’re making brisk money.”

“What’s Death doing?”

“He’s helping behind the counter.”

“Are you crazy?”

“He’s putting DVDs in little plastic cases so customers can take them home. I think even an angel can handle that. Besides, I’m sick of being alone with him watching kiddie movies.”

“Okay, but the first sign of anything weird, the first unfamiliar face that tries to get in, you lock the place down and call me, understand?”

“I can’t hear you. I’m doing actual work. Have fun sitting on your fat ass all night.”

He hangs up.

Candy is snapping pictures of the street through the windshield.