Текст книги "The Hell Yo "

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professor who started all this shit?”

“All what shit? You also said you realized that there probably wasn’t a connection

between your case and this.”

“That girl they dug up in the Hollywood Hills? Her name was Karen Holtzer. She was a

student at UCLA.”

“Yeah? She have any life or interests beyond being a student at UCLA?”

It occurred to me that what was really biting him was the fact that he hadn’t

considered tracking back to the original class Angus had attended or the professor who had

taught it – and I had.

But I didn’t want to fight with Jake; I saw little enough of him as it was. I said,

“Look…” and filled him in on exactly what had been said – and to whom.

When I’d finished Jake stared at me like he’d never seen the species before. “What the

hell are you doing butting in on this?” he asked. “You’re not the punk’s father. Or do you

have something going with him too?”

I admit that took me off guard. My stomach dropped a floor or two. I blinked at him, at

a loss for words. I had a sudden vision of myself lying in his arms, soaked and sticky with his

cum. Did he honest to God think –?

He glared back at me, but then his gaze swerved. He grimaced. “Forget it.” He sighed.

“Adrien, you’re trying to help the kid, but for all you know you made it worse, and now

you’ve set yourself up as a target too.”

“You don’t know that. Snowden may not have talked to anybody yet. This could be the

natural progression.”

He was silent. Too silent. When he could apparently trust himself to speak, he said

crisply, “I’m going to tell you nicely. Stay out of it.” He slid his sunglasses back on. I had twin

reflections of myself looking pissed. “Understood?”

“Got it,” I bit out.

It didn’t go a long way to cooling me down when he reached over and gave my hair a

quick, casual ruffle before turning to go.

* * * * *

The shop was called Dragonwyck. As fate would have it, it occupied the building

which had once housed Cafe Noir. The pink stucco walls were painted with ivy and thorns

and magic symbols. In the glass-front box that used to display the menu was a listing of the

classes offered for the winter session: Magickal Tools taught by Rhiannon. Dreams and

Divination taught by Cassandra. Finding and Communicating with Spirit Guides taught by

Ariel.

I stepped inside and was greeted by soft sitar music and the scent of incense. The place

was brightly lit, clean, and well organized, which I didn’t expect. If Claude’s spirit was still

hanging around, I couldn’t tell. Neatly labeled shelves were packed with books, gems,

minerals, crystals, candles, candles, more candles, goblets, chalices, incense, oils, and bumper

stickers.

GODDESS ON THE LOOSE

MY OTHER CAR IS A BROOM

WITCHES PARKING (ALL OTHERS WILL BE TOAD)

A plump, middle-aged woman stood at the counter dressed in purple tie-dyed gauze.

She had a kind, freshly-scrubbed face – nothing like the babes on Charmed.

“Blessed be,” she greeted me.

“Hi,” I said.

“Can I help you find something? Herbal tea? A Renaissance Fair costume?” She

twinkled at me. “A love potion?”

Herbal tea is one thing, but did I look like the kind of guy in the market for a

Renaissance Fair costume?

“Information.”

She tipped down her gold-wire specs, peered at me.

I showed her a couple of the photos I had enlarged on my computer and printed out.

She stared for a long time, frowning. Then she said, “This is an inverted pentagram. It

symbolizes the Morning Star – Venus – and Satan. That’s not what we’re about. We’re

Wicca. We have nothing to do with Satan.”

That sounded familiar. I’d done reading on the subject years ago. Nothing attracts

adolescents like the promise of supernatural powers. If ever a kid had felt the need to

overcompensate, it was me.

“In fact, we don’t recognize a supreme evil deity like Lucifer or Satan, whatever you

want to call Him,” she added. “We worship the God and the Goddess, the harmony of male

and female. We honor Mother Earth and hold all of nature sacred. This…” She looked at the

photo. “This is entirely different. This is…evil.”

“It’s annoying, anyway.”

She shook her head, insisting, “It’s evil.”

“What does the symbol in the center of the pentagram represent?”

She hesitated. “Ariel,” she said softly, gazing past me.

For a second, I thought she meant that the symbol represented Ariel. The only Ariel I

knew was the spirit who served Prospero in The Tempest, and I didn’t believe that was even

a real supernatural entity. There was motion behind me. Another Wiccan appeared, this one,

tall, bony, freckled, clad in flowing green tie-dye. Apparently she’d been lurking amongst

the dried lemongrass and sassafras.

They reminded me of the fairies in Sleeping Beauty. I was tempted to ask where

Merryweather was.

Ariel wafted past me. She examined the photograph her soul sister held out. She

blanched.

“The Ars Goetia?” the first one inquired.

Ariel nodded. She looked at me. “This symbol is a seal. A personal signature

representing a demon. A high-ranking demon.”

I certainly didn’t want any low-ranked demons loitering about the place. “So…what

does that mean? I’ve been cursed?”

They both made these quick, almost imperceptible hand gestures. Were they averting

the Evil Eye or giving me a witchy high five?

“This is your home?” Ariel inquired gravely.

What did I have to lose by telling the truth?

“I own the property,” I compromised.

“Not good,” Ariel said to the other one. “Cassandra?”

Cassandra shook her head.

“This is out of our realm,” she told me apologetically. “The Howling Art is not one of

ours.”

“That makes three of us.”

Ariel said tentatively, “We could…refer you to someone.”

“Okay.” A specialist. I knew how that worked.

The Wiccans looked at each other, seemed to exchange info via the Psychic Network.

Cassandra disappeared into the back room, which had formerly served as the kitchen at Cafe

Noir.

She reappeared a moment later and handed me a business card. I glanced at it. There

was a phone number in silver script. That was it.

“An’ it harm none, do what ye will,” said Ariel.

“Words to live by,” I agreed.

* * * * *

I left a message for Professor Snowden with the history department secretary. I didn’t

want to jump to any conclusions. Maybe he hadn’t had a chance to talk to the Wild Bunch

yet. Maybe he had no intention of talking to them. Or maybe I had miscalculated, and

talking to them had made them more aggressive.

In any case, further sleuthing on my part had to wait until I’d solved the case of getting

coverage at the store.

Mrs. T did not seem any happier with the streaky results of my efforts to clean the

front stoop than she had been with the original pentagram. She kept looking at me and

shaking her head sadly as though she could already foresee my unfortunate end. But what

settled the matter was the fact that every time a customer neared the cash register, she came

haring after me, frantically flapping her tiny hands over her tiny head in the universally

recognized gesture for The sky is falling!

We waved good-bye to each other at the end of the day. I called the agency asking for a

replacement. While I microwaved a frozen dinner, I thumbed through the Los Angeles

Times.

MISSING TEENAGER MAY HAVE BEEN VICTIM OF CULT

Investigators digging in Eaton Canyon Park late Saturday night

unearthed what they believe are the remains of a teenager who

disappeared two years ago.

The badly decomposed body of a young white male was

discovered in a shallow grave beneath a tree carved with symbols

believed to have occult significance. Similar symbols were found

on the victim’s body. A source close to the investigation

confirmed that the heart of the victim had been removed.

Detective James Riordan of the Pasadena Police Department

refused to speculate on a possible link between this death and the

discovery of a woman’s similarly mutilated body in the

Hollywood Hills last month.

As yet, police have no suspects in the brutal slaying.

Suddenly I wasn’t so hungry.

Chapter Five

“I heard what happened,” Paul Chan said as I finished setting up the chairs for Tuesday

night’s Partners in Crime writing group. Chan was Jake’s longtime sidekick in Homicide.

“Just when you think you’ve seen it all.”

“You’ve likely seen a lot of it,” I replied absently, stepping back to gauge my

handiwork.

“I’m starting to think these murdering freaks are everywhere.”

I glanced at him, his words finally registering. “Probably not,” I said.

I had managed to sneak in a few minutes of Internet research before setting up for the

group: According to the FBI, if satanic sacrifices and cult murders were as prevalent as some

claimed, the nation would be littered with thousands and thousands of dead animals and

humans. Slaughter on that scale could hardly be kept secret.

“Truth is stranger than fiction. You ought to know that,” Chan said. He added, “You

hear they’re talking about putting together a task force for this killing in Eaton Canyon?”

Chan was a middle-aged, deceptively avuncular-looking Asian-American. I never quite

knew what he made of my relationship with Jake. Clearly he understood we had a kind of

relationship, but he carefully steered clear of acknowledging that it was anything but a casual

friendship – which, for all I knew, was how Jake had presented it.

“A task force?”

“Oh, yeah. Jake could be a part of that. It could be a powerful opportunity.” He gave

me a vague smile which might have indicated sympathy for the fact that devil worshippers

were after me, or because he was aware that I was on Jake’s shit list.

If they were putting together a task force, it must mean that the symbols on the tree

and the victim were definitely occult in nature and that there was a link between the girl

found in the Hollywood Hills and the body found in Eaton Canyon. I guess that explained

how Jake had turned up on my doorstep this morning. He had feelers out for anything

remotely occult-oriented.

I didn’t believe my little problem had to do with a murder – let alone two murders. I

mean, LA is full of nutjobs. That doesn’t mean they’re all acquainted or attend the same

church, anymore than I personally know every bookseller or mystery writer.

The others began arriving at that point, so there was no further chance for discussion.

The group now numbered eight members. Of the eight, about four were serious about

writing (read: willing to “compromise their art”), and of the four, three showed what I

considered real promise. This opinion was based on years of bookselling, not my own

unexpected and slight literary success – although ironically it was my “cred” as a published

writer (however inexperienced), and not as a bookseller, that was valued by my partners in

crime.

They were a nice group, though, supportive of each other’s efforts, cheering on the

triumphs and commiserating over the rejections. Tonight our married writing team, Jean and

Ted Finch, were reading from their magnum dopus Murder, He Mimed.

I poured a cup of coffee, snagged a couple of oatmeal cookies to make up for dumping

my frozen dinner down the garbage disposal. The cookies were nice and crunchy, which

effectively drowned out Jean’s reading. I turned the pages when the others did, my thoughts

on whether – should the situation deteriorate further – I could track Angus through his

girlfriend, Wanda. I didn’t think it would be necessary. Even if he was on the periphery of

this stuff, it didn’t necessarily mean he’d know anything useful beyond rumor and

conjecture. Jake’s instincts were usually good, but his view of humanity was jaded.

I’d assumed Wanda had left town with Angus, but maybe not. I tried to remember if

he’d listed anyone as an emergency contact, I thought he might have put her down. As far as

I knew, Wanda lived at home with her parents, so maybe there was a lead there.

I realized Jean had stopped reading. The group was ready for discussion. The Finches

have been working on this monsterpiece for the past two years. The latest revision had to do

with turning a relatively minor character, Avery Oxford, into the protagonist. I had a lot of

problems with Avery, not so much because he was a gay stereotype, but because I feared he

was based on me. True, he was a Hollywood gossip columnist, but he was thirty-three, five-

eleven, slender, had black hair, blue eyes, and a friend on the police force named Jack

O’Reilly – and he kept showing up in my clothes. In the scene I’d just read, he was wearing

“a favorite pair of faded Levi’s and a black lambswool sweater over a crisp, white T-shirt” –

pretty much what I’d worn to last week’s meeting.

I said, trying to be tactful, “I could be wrong, but I don’t think turning Avery into the

protag is a good idea, Jean. I think you should stick to the original plan. Kill him off in

chapter seven. Or even sooner.”

“I don’t know,” Max mused. “He’s an amusing twerp.” Max was a rugged forty, with

yellow shaggy hair and yellow shaggy beard. Attractive, I guess, if you don’t mind a guy who

sees deodorant and razors as a threat to his masculinity. He was aggressively heterosexual

and made a point of dating every unattached woman who joined the group. Since his regular

pillow pal was Grania Joyce, another of our partners in crime, it made for an interesting

dynamic.

Ted turned to Jean, whose face had fallen at my words. She faltered, “We’ve already

rewritten those first nine chapters to reflect the new character dynamic.”

“I don’t think he’s a strong enough character.”

“You could go with the cop,” Chan suggested. “O’Reilly’s a strong character.”

“If you don’t mind the testosterone overload,” Grania sneered. Grania was tall and

rangy, with an unruly mane of sorrel hair: your basic warrior princess model.

“I got no problem with it,” said Chan.

Their gazes locked. They did this dueling lightsaber thing, which I hastened to

interrupt. “But you see, that makes more sense,” I said quickly. “It’s more believable that a

cop would get involved in solving these murders. I mean, you’re talking about writing a

series. How believable is it that this Hollywood gossip columnist is going to keep stumbling

on all these murders?”

“That’s the problem with the amateur sleuth in general,” Grania pointed out. Grania,

naturally, wrote about a kick-ass female PI. “It’s totally artificial.”

Chan said reasonably, “I don’t know. A lot of kinky shit goes down in Hollyweird. A

gossip columnist could get sucked into that.”

“Hey, you’re writing about a gay Shakespearean actor solving mysteries,” Max pointed

out to me. “You sold the series to some lunatic fringe publishing house.”

Ted said, “How believable is it that a bookseller and mystery author would get involved

solving mysteries? But you’ve been involved twice in murder cases, Adrien.” Jean nodded

eagerly. “You’re like a real-life amateur sleuth. So it does happen. Truth is stranger than

fiction.”

“Let them write what they want to write,” Max said irritably. “What do you care?”

“I don’t think that Avery’s…likeable.”

Jean looked like she was going to cry, like I’d insulted her precious prune of a newborn.

“You don’t like Avery?”

Ted glared at me.

The entire circle stared at me.

“Not a terribly constructive comment, Adrien,” Grania observed.

* * * * *

When the group at last broke up, I cleared the chairs and crumbs, made sure the side

and front doors were secured, and climbed the stairs to my flat.

I poured myself a drink and tried to think of an entertaining way to fill the rest of the

evening. I don’t think of myself as a loner, but it’s a fact that my friends generally do the

calling. And I’ve never been able to get into the whole club scene. I don’t like crowds. I like

reading.

I’d carried a stack of books upstairs. I lazily skimmed a copy of Rick Copp’s The Actor’s

Guide to Murder. I noticed a lot of these gay amateur sleuths have cop boyfriends. And I

noticed that none of these cops seem particularly closeted. I also noticed that they all seemed

amazingly agreeable about sharing privileged information with their non-cop boyfriends. It

was a shame Jake didn’t read these books.

I was getting into a scene in which Copp’s protag was once again being scolded by his

(yikes!) hazel-eyed, brawny cop boyfriend for sticking his nose into a criminal investigation,

when I noticed the answering machine blinking. I pressed the button, listened to a stiff

Professor Snowden telling me I could call him at a certain number. I picked up, dialed the

number he’d left.

He answered on the fourth ring, sounding as preoccupied as if I’d caught him

correcting final exams.

“Hi, it’s Adrien English.”

There was a pause. “Oh. Er…hello.” Pause.

I opened my mouth to say hello again – it seemed to be one of those conversations –

but Snowden said carefully, “I’ve been unable to get in touch with the person I thought

might know about our mutual friend’s difficulty.”

The guy sounded like he worked for the CIA. Or Charles Dickens. I said, “Well, not to

pressure you, but some joker painted a pentagram on my front step last night. The folks at

Dragonwyck seemed to think this was not good.”

Silence stretched on the other end.

“Perhaps we should meet,” he said finally.

I had no problem with that, provided it was in a public place in broad daylight, not

Eaton Canyon at midnight. “Sure,” I said. “When and where?”

* * * * *

Wednesday morning brought fitful sunshine and Lester Naess. Lester was about my

age, very heavy and a talker. He smelled of cigarettes and astringent. By midmorning I’d

heard about his first divorce, his second wife, and his kidney operation. On the bright side,

he wasn’t afraid to deal with the customers. The fear was all on the side of John Q. Public.

Before lunch, Lester had updated me on his gallstones, his second divorce, and his

current girlfriend. Immediately following lunch, he had what he described as “a nicotine fit.”

When he recovered, I slipped out for a Starbucks and a quick nervous breakdown. I phoned

Guy Snowden to tell him I’d have to reschedule our meeting.

“Has something happened?” he asked warily. Possibly it was my tone.

I assured him all was cool, although I couldn’t help wondering: If God works in

mysterious ways, why shouldn’t the Devil seek temporary employment in a mystery

bookstore?

After lunch Lester told me about his angina, his IRS audit, his first heart attack, and his

girlfriend’s lousy teenagers. I decided that another day of Lester, and I’d also be having chest

pains.

I called the agency once more.

* * * * *

Jake dropped by that evening with Chinese takeout and the Alien vs. Predator DVD. I

had closed shop on the ponderous heels of Lester and was trying to drape miniature

Christmas lights along the ceiling. I had the McGarrigle sisters’ Christmas CD playing in the

storeroom, so maybe that’s why I didn’t hear him using his key in the side door.

A floorboard squeaked, I glanced down, and for once, there really was a shadowy figure

coming at me.

“Jesus!” I yelped, nearly overbalancing the ladder.

“Christ!” finished Jake, who also jumped, but managed to make it look more like

someone leaping into battle mode and less like someone about to rocket through the roof.

These tender greetings out of the way, he ordered me down from the ladder, took my

place at the dark beams. I carried the takeout upstairs, emptied out the soggy containers, put

the food into pans to heat later, and briefly studied the DVD cover.

“My money’s on the aliens,” I called, starting back down the staircase.

“Nah,” Jake returned, seriously. “No way. All the aliens have is acid blood. The

predators have body armor and invisibility.”

Ah, yes . I saw why Jake was voting for the predators. Nothing like invisibility when

you need it.

He had already managed to string the lights all along the back partition of the shop. I

dug fake pine garland out of the dusty cardboard boxes and draped it artistically over the

faux fireplace.

We worked for long, companionable minutes. No mention of his case load, no mention

of my straying off the reservation. The music filled in the silence.

“Rufus Wainwright?” he inquired when the song “What Are You Doing New Year’s

Eve” whispered through the canyon of bookshelves.

“Yeah.”

He grunted disapprovingly.

“Hey, you think you’d want to go to this wedding?” I asked casually. “I could use the

moral support.”

He didn’t speak for a moment. I couldn’t see his profile; the upper half of his body was

in shadow.

I qualified hastily, “I mean, as a regular guest. As a friend of Lisa’s.” Meaning not as my

personal guest, meaning his cover would not be compromised.

“Uh, sure,” he said vaguely. “I could do that.” He glanced back at me. “How does this

look?”

“Great.”

He tossed me the extension cord. “Try plugging that in.”

I found the wall socket behind the tall mahogany counter which had once served as the

hotel’s front desk. I guided the prongs into the wall socket and felt a weird rippling jolt wash

through my body. The cord dropped out of my hand, though I don’t think I consciously

moved my fingers.

“Shit! It shocked me.” I sat back on my heels, heart pounding way too fast, thinking,

shit, shit, shit. Not good …

“Are you okay?” Jake jumped from the ladder, came around the counter, squatting

down, face tense.

I waited for my heart to start skipping and stuttering. It continued to gallop away,

trying to outrun the threat.

“Okay, baby?”

I took an experimental breath, nodded.

He rested a callused hand against my cheek, tilting my face so that our eyes met.

“Sure?”

“I think so.” From his expression, he was thinking what I was, that any minute the

electrical shock would send my own funky heartbeat out of sync.

“Why don’t you sit back?”

I lowered myself the rest of the way and leaned gingerly against the base of the desk. I

took another careful breath. My heart began to slow. I decided that I was okay, just startled.

My hand still tingled. I flexed it.

“You’re lucky you dropped the cord. That doesn’t always happen.”

I nodded. Lucky I dropped the cord. Not so lucky I got shocked. I thought of that

pentagram on my front step.

Jake eyed me like there was a defect in the manufacturing. I gave him a lopsided grin.

“Take it easy.”

I nodded. “Sorry. I sort of scared myself.”

“No shit.” He frowned. “What did you do?”

“Nothing. It wasn’t anything I did. Nothing anybody did. The wiring’s old, that’s all.”

His mouth twitched.

I clarified, “The building’s. Not mine.”

That night the fucking felt like making love. So slow and so sweet. We spent a long

time stroking, petting, kissing. Hands threading hair, bringing faces closer, the taste of lips

and tongues, gentle bites and soft breaths and languid sips. The friendly bump of noses, the

flickering of eye lashes, the slow, quiet exchange of breaths. A little cocoon of sensual

delight – and maybe something more.

But at last we began to thrust against each other, pleasure knotting into hunger and

passion and the need that always felt close to anxiety. I wrapped my arms around his broad,

muscular back, arching against him, feeling the hard probe of his dick against my belly. No

questions here, the answers being self-evident.

Jake muttered against my ear, “My God, I…”

“Me too.”

I scooted back, smiling despite my tiredness, knees splayed, fingertips grazing the flat

hard planes of his chest, reaching for him again.

Instead he pushed me back without roughness into the pillows. “Nah. Just relax.”

Nah? “But…”

“Just…shut up…” He leaned over me, found my mouth, kissing away the sting of that.

“And…relax.” His lips trailed softly down my naked flesh, pressing tiny melting kisses on my

chin, my throat, collar bone, breast bone, belly, the sensitive joining of groin and inner

thigh. I shivered. He’d never…was he going to…?

“Very pretty, Adrien,” he whispered. “Every inch of you.” And he kissed the head of

my cock, which, embarrassingly, seemed to be reaching up for that very thing.

I laughed shakily, the laugh dying in the back of my throat as his wet, hot mouth

closed around me. My hands fluttered to my sides, half protest – though what the hell was

there to protest in this? – half supplication, clenching in the duvet.

Jake’s tongue traced the slit, tasting. I caught a ragged breath, amazed, afraid to say a

word that might break whatever magic spell this was. His lips tightened around my shaft,

and I stopped myself from bucking up. I felt him smile, felt his fingers cup my balls and

squeeze.

I did arch then, gasping, “Jake!”

“Right here. What’d you need?”

Oh, I didn’t want him talking . Couldn’t bear to be teased. Couldn’t bear for that febrile

slide down my dick to stop.

I moaned and was promptly enveloped in that slick, sucking heat. That sweet pulse of

pleasure as his mouth dragged on my length, drawing me in deeper. The pressure of his

tongue on the sensitive underside of the head of my cock. He took me all the way in, sucking

hard, and my hands moved to his shoulders, squeezing, urging.

But Jake took his time, like we had all night, gentle and relentless, and in the end the

intensity of feeling was so powerful it brought tears to my eyes. Coming was an exquisite

shock of release, with me pushing up hard into the grip of lips and mouth, pumping out what

felt like my life’s blood in hard, long strokes.

I rested my forearm over my face so he wouldn’t know, but Jake drew me into his

arms, found my mouth. He tasted like me and like himself.

All I wanted to do was sleep, but I forced myself to mumble the words, “What about

you, Jake?”

“I’m good. Go to sleep,” he said, settling us more comfortably. He rested his face in the

curve of my neck and lay very still.

Chapter Six

Morning had broken – apparently over Gabriel Savant’s aching head.

Unshaven, eyes red-rimmed, he wore expensive, wrinkled trousers and silk shirt. He

looked, in my opinion, more like the victim in a horror novel than the dapper celebrity who

penned them.

“I was hoping that you might have found that disk.” His smile looked like it hurt.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I told Friedlander that I don’t think you could have left it here. I’ve

looked a couple of times.”

Hollow-eyed, he continued to smile twitchily at me. “It’s very important that I find it.

Bobby is very upset.”

“I don’t know what to tell you. If you want to look around –?”

He took out a pack of clove cigarettes and lit one. His hand shook. “There are things

you don’t understand.”

Well, yeah, starting with the popularity of reality TV and moving on down to adult

men who wear Capri pants.

I said, “I gather it was research for a project you’re working on?”

His eyes seemed to start from his head. “Why would you say that?”

Paranoia: it’s not just for dinner anymore. “I’m guessing,” I said kindly.

He continued to stare at me, then relaxed a fraction. Nodding, he blew a stream of

smoke out his nostrils. “Bobby and I meet people. In the course of our work.”

“Sure.” I had to wonder about his relationship with Friedlander. I’d had the impression

that Friedlander was sent as an author escort from the publisher, but that seemed to be

incorrect. Was Friedlander maybe Savant’s assistant? I considered that diamond stud winking

away in Savant’s shell-like right ear, but I didn’t get the feeling Savant was gay or even bi.

He continued, “We take notes. You never know what will be useful. We have a book

due every nine months, see?”

“That’s got to be tough.” Surely the hundreds of thousands that he earned in royalties

was some compensation.

“We don’t use it all, naturally. Some of our research material is fairly…sensitive.”

Were they blackmailing people? What was the deal here? I must have looked

perplexed, because he said, “If you help me, I will help you.”

“You’ll help me with what?” Was he offering to work in the store? I wasn’t sure if I was

that desperate yet.

His eyes did this shift from side to side. He whispered. “I know about

your…problem…with…” His voice died out, and his lips formed soundless words, “Blade

Sable.”

Blade Sable? Was this somebody I should know? Kind of sounded like a gay super hero.

“Blade Sable?” I repeated, wondering if I’d heard him correctly.

Gabriel eyed me in disbelief, then said, “Think about it, Aiden.”

“Adrien.”

“Whatever. You wouldn’t want to deal with this on your own. These people are very

dangerous. Even without the Powers of Darkness.”

* * * * *

By midmorning, when no one turned up from the agency, I phoned and was informed

that they had sent someone. The slightly exasperated implication was that the employee was

here somewhere – or perhaps that I had carelessly lost the employee and now wanted

another one. The woman at the agency did not actually remind me that employees did not

grow on trees, but I felt like she wanted to.

Luckily, it was a slow morning. I decided that it wouldn’t matter if I closed for an hour

or two to meet the professor. I was entitled to lunch. Maybe a long lunch. What was the use

of being the boss if you couldn’t take a long lunch once in a while?

As previously arranged, we met at Campanile on South La Brea Avenue. Recognizable

by its distinctive bell tower, the building housing Campanile restaurant and La Brea Bakery

was built by Charlie Chaplin back in 1929. Before the building was completed, Chaplin lost it

in a divorce settlement. His loss is our gain.

The professor was seated in the green-walled garden area, with its towering glass

ceiling and red-tiled floor. He was reading and sipping a glass of wine. He wore jeans and a