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“The mirror is in the back. I’m not paying for it. Cherry said it was a freebie.”

“Liar. I’ll call the police.”

“Leave him alone,” says Cherry.

I see her, blurry and distorted, in the side of a polished metal display case.

“The police won’t come. He’s too dull to arrest,” she says.

“Thanks, Cherry. I’ll take you on a tour of Downtown sometime.”

“Of course you will. Remember to bring ice cream the next time you come by.”

“Right. And mochi for Kitty’s ass.”

“Excuse me?” Kitty shouts.

“Get out, Stark,” says Cherry.

This is the second time today someone’s thrown me out. A few more times and my feelings are going to get hurt.

DON’T TALK TO ghosts.

Don’t talk to ghosts.

Don’t ever talk to fucking ghosts. They’re carrying more baggage than the Hindenburg and are just as likely to burst into flames.

Still, through all her bullshit, Cherry coughed up something useful. The new Death—­wannabe Death, this year’s model Death—­is slowly pulling himself together, accreting form and power. It’s not a new story in the mystical transformation game. Hell, I went through something like it myself after a Drifter bit me. I died a little. The human part of me. Just enough that the angel half began to take over. I could feel it happening. Layers of me stripped away, like someone skinning a dead deer, until the human part of me was gone and all that was left was the red raw meat of a bouncing baby angel. Only with this neo-­Death the effect is the opposite. I was un-­becoming. New Death is getting stronger, growing in power and position. What’s he going to do when he manifests himself completely? No one joins the Death game as a retirement plan. This is an active boy who’ll soon have plenty of plans, tricks, and toys. I hope I have the chance to put many, many holes in his face before he gets to play with any of them.

It’s another hour home from Beverly Hills, but the traffic doesn’t make me angry this time. It just reminds me of the freeways Downtown. Lined with damned souls twisted into lane dividers and guardrails, and other souls trapped in rusting hulks of barely functional cars stuck in bumper-­to-­bumper traffic on the endless loops, sucking fumes and exhaust heat for the rest of eternity. That’s all over now in Hell, but I have to admire L.A. for its dedication to this primal form of Hellion humor.

KASABIAN IS BEHIND the counter explaining to a ­couple of new customers about how our movies don’t really exist in this world and that’s why the discs rent for $100 a night. You’d think that all they had to do was turn around and watch a few

minutes of the Mulholland Drive TV series David Lynch never got off the ground, or maybe acknowledge that they’re haggling with a dead man on a mechanical body. Either of those things should give them a hint to our business model, but no. Some ­people’s brains can only handle so much weirdness. So, they pretend this is a regular video store and they should get a discount on the Die Hard 2 someone threw in the bargain bin (which is where it always belonged). Me? I would have shot both of them by now and burned their bodies in the Dumpster, but that’s why Kasabian is the businessman and I’m the silent partner who lurks upstairs, which is where I head before I get drawn into the debate society.

Candy is on her lunch break, picking at a baguette and watching an episode of Yakitate!! Japan. She looks up when I come in and pauses the cartoon.

“How did it go, Nick Charles? Did you crack the case?”

“Yeah. Death is really a crooked shoe magnate from Minneapolis on the run from loan sharks in the Wisconsin cheese Mob.”

“I’d run too. There’s a lot of cannibals in Wisconsin.”

“Hey, Ed Gein spent his golden years as the asylum barber, a decent and noble profession. Don’t slander the man for a few bad dinner choices.”

“What about Dahmer?”

“Dahmer was a drunk with power tools who watched Return of the Jedi one too many times. I know I’ve thought about murder when ­people won’t shut up about Star Wars.”

“Guess I won’t be sending for those Millennium Falcon sheets after all.”

“Please don’t.”

I want a drink, but I go to the kitchen and pour myself a cup of coffee. Just what I need: a three-­hundred-­degree drink on a scorching L.A. afternoon. I once considered learning to love iced coffee, but then I remembered I’d have to kill myself, so I gave up the idea.

“Have you seen Vincent? He wasn’t downstairs.”

Candy restarts the anime.