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She goes back to the cabin and Abbot to talk about me. If I could still shadow-­walk, I’d come out behind the drapes and listen to what they really think. As it is, all I can do is speculate. Like, are they setting me up for something or is this a chance to get some real money?

I walk past the bodyguards. They don’t show the slightest interest in me.

Back on the deck of the burned-­out boat, I stand and look out to sea, playing the last few minutes over in my head.

I don’t know what to think. I want to tell Abbot to fuck off and walk away, but I’ve played that game so many times before and where has it gotten me? Broke. Almost homeless. With no real prospects and less power than I’ve had since I went Downtown. Being an Abomination is one thing, but being a loser Abomination is really not acceptable. Still, I can’t get past the fact that the James Dean pretty-­boy prick was just too good to be true.

I weigh the bottle in my hand. Cock my arm to throw it out into the harbor. I’m halfway through my swing when I stop.

On the other hand, he could have poisoned me on the boat and dumped my body in the ocean where no one would ever find it. Even if Abbot is a snake, it doesn’t mean I have to take it out on an innocent bottle of good whiskey. And being on the outside so long is starting to lose its charm. What’s the saying? Keep your friends close and your enemies closer? I don’t know who Tommy is, but maybe I should be the cave bird in his hand, just for a while. It’s something to think about.

As I wander back to the Crown Vic, a stretch limo pulls up a few yards away. Four goons climb out of the back, two from each side of the car. They eye me like a Gucci SWAT team. Unlike the meat pies on the boat, these are Sub Rosa heavies, second-­rate magicians, but with big balls and a lot of dark, baleful magic tricks.

I act like I don’t see them, open the car door, toss in the Jack, and slide inside the Vic like any good civilian heading home after a day at the marina. With my left hand, I adjust the rearview mirror so I can see them. I keep my right hand on the key in the ignition just in case. Once the wolves have decided the coast is clear, a squat, older man with a cane climbs out of the car.

His clothes are so out of style, for a second I think he must be a vampire. Some of the slow ones lose track of the decades and fail to notice that not everyone wears zoot suits anymore. It makes them easy to hunt. This guy, however, is out in broad daylight, so he’s no shroud eater, meaning his look is deliberate.

He has on a bright red leisure suit, white patent-­leather shoes, with a white belt, like the regional manager of a carpet-­cleaning company in 1974. I only get a glimpse of his face before the goons close in around him, but it’s enough.

It’s Tamerlan Radescu, the necromancer. He’s not just a Dead Head, he’s the McDonald’s of Dead Heads, the only magician I’ve ever heard of who’s licensed his name to other magicians. Any competent but mediocre necromancer can buy a franchise, use Tamerlan’s name and “techniques,” and instantly double his or her income, all while kicking back a percentage to the home office. ­People say Tamerlan himself hasn’t done a lick of hoodoo in years. He just collects the checks and buys bad suits.

Tamerlan lets himself through the gate I had to break into and heads down the dock for the Augur’s boat. Where else would he be going? Looks like Tommy is still getting acquainted with the local Sub Rosa heavy hitters. Have fun staring at that grisly suit for an hour.

As I start the car I stare at all that money, feeling sorry for myself. Because I have to drive another hour back across town. If I end up taking Abbot’s offer, I don’t want a stipend.

I want a jet pack.

I’M BACK ON the 405, stuck behind a vegan bakery truck with a flat tire. It’s not their fault, but now I’m hungry for a plate of carnitas. As the traffic in our lane slowly merges into the next to get around the carrot huggers, my phone rings. I answer it and hit the speaker button so I don’t have to hold it.

“Stark? It’s Julie. Where are you?”

“Stuck in traffic on the dark side of the moon. Where are you?”

“At the office. Can you get over here? I have some information.”

“Me too. I just met the new Augur.”

“Really? Wow. You’ll have to tell me about it.”

“Not anytime soon. Seriously, nothing is moving. I’m going to be here for a while.”

“Fine. We’ll do it this way. I have an ID on Death. Death’s body.”

“Who is it?”

“His name is Eric Townsend. A commodities trader at a boutique company called Yaa and Sons.” She spells it out. “It sounds like it might be China-­based. I’m going to check them out.”

The guy behind me honks, an existential bleat in a concrete river of despair. I give him the finger. Fuck you, Jeff Gordon.

“Yaa isn’t Chinese. It’s an old Indian name for Los Angeles. And I mean old. Like five thousand years old.”

“How do you know that?”

“I’m a magician. We know lots of funny things. And sometimes Kasabian watches Jeopardy!”

“Anyway, that’s an interesting name for an investment company.”

“No shit. You have anything else?”