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“You drink that?”

“Everyone drinks it Downtown. How’s damnation looking to you now?”

“No one is afraid of damnation anymore. You fixed that.”

“Well, yes and no. There’s still some dispute over the matter.”

“Yes. The angelic war,” he says. “We know everything that happens down there. Whether Heaven opens or not, we’ll be fine.”

“What does that mean?”

He wipes his mouth again. I slap his arm down.

“I asked you a question.”

“I’ve already said too much.”

“What makes you think I won’t torture it out of you?”

He shakes is head.

“I’ve seen your prospectus. Torture isn’t on your list of major assets.”

“Maybe you’re right. But I can be damned clumsy.”

I take out the na’at, extend it into a spike, and let it go. It drops through his foot, pinning it to the floor. He tries not to scream.

“Oops.”

I pull out the na’at. Wipe the blood on his robe and put it away.

“You’re right. That wasn’t as much fun as it should have been. You know anything about PTSD, Charlie?”

“No.”

“Apparently, I have it. A doctor friend is going to give me pills.”

“Congratulations,” he says, folding onto his foot.

I pull a cloth off a nearby table, knocking a Tiffany lamp and some other expensive junk onto the floor. Toss the cloth to Charlie. He wraps it around his oozing foot.

“What’s the magic word, Charlie?”

He squints again.

“Thank you.”

“Good boy.”

He rocks back and forth in his chair. His heartbeat sounds like Tommy Ramone with a hot poker up his ass.

I take another hit of Aqua Regia and put it away.

“Speaking of pills, what do you know about Dixie Wishbone? As your attorney, I advise you not to lie.”

“If you’ve been in my car, you know the answer to that.”

“Yes, but what do you know about it? Its effects.”