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Much better.

Vidocq uses a dropper to add tiny amounts of a purple potion to the black milk. I take one of his bacon slices and wait to see what happens next.

After almost a minute, he says, “Interesting.”

I look at the mess on the table.

“What’s interesting? I don’t see any difference.”

“That’s what’s interesting. Look closer. The two liquids remain separate. They won’t mix.”

“What does that mean?”

“I have no idea. Yet.”

He pours the mixture into a flask that’s connected to a series of glass tubes and other glass receptacles. As the liquid moves through the tubes, it separates back into black milk and the purple potion. He pours out the potion in the kitchen sink and swirls the milk in its flask.

“I would like to test it with red mercury,” he says. “But I’m out of it and it’s not easy to find these days.”

“What are you going to do?”

He sighs.

“Make some phone calls. Ask a few favors.”

“Did the test tell you anything?”

He crosses his arms, staring at the mystery goo.

“The potion I used is a very simple one. It separates other potions into their basic elements for study. But instead, the milk repelled it.”

“Meaning?”

“As I said, I have no idea. My greatest fear is that being angelic in origin, it might not react properly with any Earthly chemicals.”

“It could be Hellion.”

“True. But Hellions being fallen angels, the problem remains.”

And here we are again. Back to the same problem. I’m stuck in L.A. with no way to get to Hell, where I might find an angel that I could choke long enough to help me. I need to sit Kasabian down for a more serious talk.

Vidocq puts a drop of the milk on a glass slide and places it under a microscope with a PROPERTY OF UCLA sticker partly scraped off.

Among Vidocq’s other interests is burglary.

“Anything?” I say.

He shrugs.

“There’s movement within the fluid. Perhaps living organisms. Perhaps simply repellent elements. It’s too early to say with any certainty. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. I knew it wouldn’t be simple. Nothing with angels ever is. For all I know, this whole thing is just a prank. Now that he can’t get at us, let’s fuck with Sandman Slim. Maybe black milk is just an exploding cigar.”

“Please,” he says. “Until we know what this is, don’t say ‘exploding.’ It’s bad luck.”

“I didn’t know you believed in that kind of thing.”

“I believe in everything. It’s what frequently comes with age. We hope for wisdom, but we just end up with more uncertainty.”