“I’ll drink to that,” says Vidocq. He holds up his empty glass and Carlos comes over and refills it.

Carlos says, “I wasn’t sure if it was you when you walked in. Even with that fucked-up face, I’m still not a hundred percent.”

He starts to pour me my sixth Jack of the night. I put my hand over the glass.

“Let’s surprise everyone. Why don’t you give me a cup of coffee?”

“See? I knew it wasn’t you. Look at this place. It’s like a wake for someone no one liked. Your pendejo brother just about drove me out of business.”

He’s right. The bar is maybe a third full. It used to be packed every night before I took off. Civilians and Lurkers like hanging around places with criminals, even if a few of them get chewed up, like the night a handful of zombies wandered in. What’s funny is that’s exactly why people come to places like this. They want to get close enough to death to smell the graveyard dust, as long as it’s someone else’s name that gets chiseled on the gravestone.

“I’ve been drinking almost nothing but Aqua Regia for three months. I want something a human being might drink. And that little darling with my face is no brother of mine.”

Carlos nods. Looks over the crowd.

“Maybe things will pick up when people hear the real you is back.”

“If it helps, you can pour the coffee in six shot glasses.”

“Great idea.”

He goes away to get the coffee and glasses.

Candy comes in just as he sets them down. She takes one, throws it back, and makes a face.

“What the hell is this?”

“Coffee.”

She slams the glass down.

“You’re such a pussy.”

“Yeah? Pick any random stranger and I’ll punch them if you’ll stay the night tonight.”

Her posture changes. She tenses up. Looks over her shoulder to a table where Rinko sits alone.

“Don’t. I can’t. It’s complicated.”

“Sorry. That was stupid.”

“No. It’s all right.”

Candy catches me looking at Rinko.

“She said she wanted to come.”

“She wants to keep an eye on you.”

“More like she wants to keep an eye on you. I guess I talked about you a lot. You know, when I thought you weren’t coming back.”

“You talked about me?”

Carlos brings Candy a shot.

“De nada,” she says, and downs it. “I told her what an old fart you are and how you have rotten taste in music.”

“Skull Valley Sheep Kill is the best band in L.A. these days.”

“If you’re an old fart. Anyone who doesn’t drink Geritol for breakfast knows that Asaruto Gâruzu is the only band that matters.”

She’s wearing another shirt with the same band and Japanese characters.

“If I’m an old fart, you’re a rice queen.”

She puts on her robot sunglasses. The ones with pictures from some anime TV show I’ve never heard of on the frame. When she presses a button between the lenses, the glasses sing the show’s theme song in a tinny voice.

“What makes you say that?”

The civilians all have dirty faces streaked with sin but the Lurkers are clean. I guess Lucifer isn’t in charge of them. My friends aren’t any exception when it comes to sin signs. Most of their faces are smeared, but not like Kasabian’s. Allegra and Carlos aren’t too bad. Vidocq is the dirtiest among my friends. His signs reach from his face to his hands, but I’m not surprised. I know he killed some guys in France a hundred years back. Like LAPD says, there’s no statute of limitations on murder, even if someone deserves it. I checked my own face in the hotel mirror. No sin signs at all. Is that because I’m Lucifer or because I’m still not entirely human?

“I missed you, you know. I wrote you notes and left them around hoping Kasabian could see them and tell you.”

She glances back at Rinko.

“Yeah. I missed you too. A quarter of a year’s worth.”

She’s plenty pissed at me. Not as pissed as Rinko but pissed. I can’t blame her. I promised her three days and gave her a hundred. This is going to take a time to pass. If it ever does, now that she’s moved on to someone else. Still, she went to the hotel with me last night. Was that a welcome home or a good-bye fuck? I guess I’ll find out. I’m so fucking good at being patient.

“I should go see how Rinko is doing,” she says.

She takes her drinks and starts back to the table. She stops and turns.

“You were going to tell me something about Lucifer last night. What was it?” she asks.

“Nothing important. Go see Rinko before she eye snuffs both of us.”

She goes and Allegra follows her over. Vidocq and Father Traven are together at the end of the bar, so I head down that way. When I get there, Vidocq drops his arm on my shoulders again. Damn French.

“Hey, Father. When did you get in?”

I put out my hand. When Traven shakes it, he lays his other hand on top like I’m the pope or Little Richard. Liam Traven is my favorite priest. Partly because he was excommunicated, which means he doesn’t take corporate shit, and partly because he’s nuts. He reads, writes, eats, and breathes ancient languages no one has ever heard of. He knows the names of more old gods than the Vatican and every Dungeons & Dragons player in the world.

“I just walked in,” he says. “When Eugène called me, I wasn’t sure whether or not to believe him. And here you are.”

“If it’s any consolation, I’m not sure if I’m here either. I feel like a bad Xerox someone put through the shredder.”

“I’m sure that will pass.”

“Sorry about your car. Did you get it back?”

On my way back to Hell, I had to abandon Traven’s car on the street near the body of a dead cop. It was an ugly scene but it was Josef’s fault not mine and there was nothing I could do about it.

“Eventually. The police held on to it for a few weeks. I feel awkward asking you this right away but I need to.”

“No. I didn’t kill that cop. But for what it’s worth, I killed the guy who did it.” And slept like a baby. But I don’t tell him that part.

I say, “I’m glad I caught the two of you together. There’s some stuff I want to talk to you about. Things that happened to me in Hell. Changes I’m still trying to get my head around.”

“Is that what the glove is for?” asks Traven.

I look down, relieved I remembered to put it back on.

“This? No. I just lost my arm and the new one is kind of ugly.”

“You lost your arm? My God.”

“Don’t sweat it, Father. Now I can get handicap plates.”

“What do you mean ugly?” asks Vidocq.

I scan the room. No one is looking, so I slip off the glove and let them get a good look at my demon mitt. Immediately I realize that it was a mistake. Traven has gone white.

Vidocq says, “Allegra tried to describe it but didn’t come close to capturing la horreur exquise.”

Traven stares at me. If eyes could scream, run home, and hide under the blankets, he’d be blind.

“Is that what Hell is like? What else did they do to you? I couldn’t psychologically survive something like that.”

Father Traven used to translate old books for the Church. Then he translated the wrong one. An evil Necronomicon thing. The Bible of the Angra Om Ya. The gods before God. He got excommunicated for his trouble, and in the priest game, excommunication is a one-way ticket to Hell. Traven is the dirtiest guy in the bar. His sin signs are deep and awful. Almost every bare inch of skin is black. His hands look like he dipped them in tar. They practically drip with sin. Then I remember. Traven’s a sin eater, from a long line of sin eaters. He’s swallowed more sins than a thousand of the worst killers and bastards you can think of. The weight of it must break his back. And he says he couldn’t survive getting an arm like mine. I think he’s selling himself short but we all define horror in our own way.

“Don’t sweat it, Father. I met God. He isn’t what you think He is. I know the Devil pretty well too. He isn’t what you think either. Trust me, Heaven or Hell, consider yourself taken care of.”