"Thanks."

"You opening another one?"

"We haven't decided yet."

"Let me know if you do. I was thinking about getting a mudra tattooed on my shoulder," she said. "Tell Lulu hi, and don't be a stranger."

"You got it," said Spyder. He smiled awkwardly and fled the place. It was all too much. The city. Too many people. Too much noise. Copper jitters. The angels, demons and strange beasts that had wandered in from other Spheres were there, too, but their presence seemed kind of normal. It was the athletic shoe ads on the buses, the wandering tourists and ultra-hipsters, the panhandling poser kids that were making it hard for him to breathe. Spyder downed his OJ, gunned the bike into traffic and drove home. He'd been social enough for one day. No need to push my luck and find that one guy who still thinks I'm Charlie Manson, he thought.

Back at the warehouse, Spyder sorted through a pile of mail on the floor by the front door. There was an official-looking letter from an insurance company. Inside was a settlement check for the burned studio. The check displayed a prominent one followed by many more zeroes than Spyder had ever seen on a document relating to him.

Later that night, he met Lulu for a drink at the Bardo Lounge and showed her the check.

"Rubi, give my future ex-husband a drink on me."

"Just make it a Coke, thanks."

"You feelin' sick?"

"Like I'm wearing borrowed skin."

"Me, too," Lulu said. "Still haven't heard anything from Shrike?"

Spyder shook his head. He pulled out a fresh pack of cigarettes, cracked the pack and removed one. Lulu stole one and lit Spyder's smoke with the pink Zippo she'd almost lost by the Bone Sea.

"Not a word," said Spyder.

"We been sitting around too long. We need to work."

"I'm not ready to even think about opening another shop. Maybe we could get a couple of chairs in a shop on the street. Big Bill's or Colored People."

"There you go."

Rubi came back with their drinks. "Cheers," she said, giving them a big smile. Spyder was almost used to Rubi not hating him.

Lulu raised her glass in a toast.

"The Kaiser's moustache."

"To Lucifer's tail." Then, "To Primo."

"To Primo."

A demon sat on the stool to Spyder's right, nursing a glass of Jagermeister. Bilal, the demon, fat and shirtless, poured the Jager into a mouth that opened in his chest. He looked straight ahead, trying not to catch Spyder's eye.

Spyder leaned over to him. "What's the difference between a demon and a glass of beer?" Spyder asked.

Bilal shifted his eyes toward Spyder, but refused to turn his head. "What?"

"Beer's still good without a head." Spyder put his hand on the demon's shoulder. "Remember me?"

The demon turned away.

"Talking meat all looks pretty much the same to me."

"You're Bilal?"

"Maybe."

"Then you should remember me. Or do you curse so many people that we all blur together?"

"You need to go away now," Bilal said. His chest-mouth opened slowly, emitting a growl and hot breath that reeked of wet decay.

"Stop that," said Spyder. He touched the middle finger of his right hand to Bilal's chest. The skin shifted like sand, sealing the extra mouth shut. "What were you saying?"

The demon heaved its enormous bulk from the barstool, feeling for its lost mouth.

"I'll destroy you," it said.

"Yeah, your first one worked out so well. What do you do for an encore? Not swallow my soul?" Spyder took a sip of his Coke and a long drag off his cigarette. It was good to have real smokes again. "I was in the book. I am the book. And your demon noise sounds like cricket farts to me now. I have Apollyon's blade. I'm the devil's brother. I killed the Black Clerks. What are you but some back alley rat-eater who likes to take out his bad moods on people who can't fight back?"

Bilal was breathing hard. He was angry, but Spyder could tell that he was even more scared.

"Leave me alone," said Bilal.

"All I wanted was to be left alone, but you tried to eat me. When that didn't work, you cursed me. Made people think I was Hannibal Lecter."

"That was before."

"Before what?"

"Before I knew who you were."

"And who's that?"

"The Painted Man."

"Don't you forget it. Now, what's the magic word?"

"What word?"

"What do we say when we've fucked up and we want forgiveness?" asked Spyder.

Bilal hesitated, shook his head. He stared at the floor. John Cale's version of "Heartbreak Hotel" came on the jukebox.

"I'm sorry," said Bilal.

Spyder nodded, patted the demon's barstool.

"Climb back up in the saddle, big man. Let me buy you another Jager."

"You're not going to kill me?"

"Hell no," said Spyder. "I understand about bad moods and being stuck someplace maybe you don't want to be. So, you get to keep your head and I get to not spill demon guts all over this nice, clean shirt."

Bilal gestured to his chest.

"Could you?"

"Sorry." Spyder touched the demon. The skin of Bilal's chest shifted, unsealing his second mouth.

Rubi brought him a shot of Jager and Spyder passed it to the demon. He clinked his Coke against Bilal's glass in a toast.

"Tell me the truth," said Spyder, leaning in close. "Do we taste more like pork or chicken?"

Sixty-One

The Other Side of the Wind

A month later, the initial rush of being back home had worn off. Spyder waited for his mind to settle down, his moods to slide into their regular patterns; he waited for the world to become solid under his feet, but it didn't happen.

He ate. He slept. He ordered a new tattoo gun and an autoclave from an online wholesaler. When they arrived, he got as far as opening the box before losing interest. Every day he went out to buy food, but just came home with more cigarettes. When the insurance check covering the fire in the tattoo shop arrived, he finally admitted that he wasn't going to go back to work anytime soon. After a few calls, he got Lulu a table at Luscious Abrasion, just down the street from where their shop had been. He'd visit her there every couple of days.

It had been more than a month, but he was startled every time he saw her. She looked so good, so happy to be back. Soon, it was hard to remember all that the Clerks had done to her.

"You look lost at sea, sailor." Lulu and Spyder were having burgers at an outdoor cafe near Golden Gate Park. Lulu stole another of Spyder's American Spirits and lit it with the pink lighter he'd taken back from Lucifer while they were still in Hell.

"I'm feeling a little adrift, yeah. No big deal. It'll pass."

"You need to work, dude. Get back to what you know and what you're good at. I bet you could really make the colors dance now that you've got all those Dr. Strange super powers."

He shook his head and took a bite of his burger. The meat was chewy and tasteless in his mouth.

"You'd think so, wouldn't you?" he asked. "But I can't control it. I'm a little scared of my hands. What if my mind wanders-and it's wandering a lot these days-and I turn some baby goth girl into a Black Clerk?"

"If you make any Angelina Jolies, save one for me." She smiled at him and when he didn't smile back, Lulu shook her head. "I don't understand why you can't just do stuff now. You healed me back at Cinders' place. And you fixed Shrike."

"That was all one big rush. Like I was running, and as long as I kept running, I could do anything. But now I stopped and I can't find my feet. The more I think about the magic, the worse I get at it."

"What are you going to do?"

"Don't know. The insurance money came through, so I don't really have to work right now. Besides, I dream about money and there's gold in my sock drawer when I wake up."

"Must be nice," said Lulu, irritation edging into her voice. "What'd be even nicer was if you got over this whiny little bitch thing you're in and you went out and found Shrike."