“Is Mike around?”

“Who vants to know?” asks the taller of the two in a deep Boris Badenov accent.

“The Devil.”

Ivan the Terrible considers this for a minute.

“He’s busy.”

“Tell him I might be willing to do a deal where he gets his soul back.”

Ivan stares but the shorter vucari stands on tiptoe and whispers something in his ear.

“Vait here,” says Ivan.

“That’s okay. We’ll come with you.”

He weighs the rubber mallet in his hand but the little vucari says something else and Ivan backs down.

“This vay.”

“Why don’t you point to the door and we’ll make our own introductions.”

Ivan points to a grimy door with plastic “Cash Only” and “Protected by Smith & Wesson” signs tacked on the front. I open the door quietly and Candy and I go inside.

Manimal Mike is sprawled on a vinyl sofa with his back to the door. The sofa is patched with duct tape and smeared with enough grease to slick down the manes of all four presidents on Mount Rushmore. Across the room is a half-empty bottle of generic vodka on a worktable scattered with tools, gears, springs, and a sputtering half-finished mechanical python.

Mike has a little 9mm Kel-Tec in his hand and a shot glass on his head. I take Candy’s arm and pull her over by a tire rack. It’s lousy cover but it’s better than nothing.

Manimal Mike takes aim and fires at a steel plate mounted on the far wall. The bullet ricochets and hits an identical plate on the wall behind him. It ricochets again and hits the back of the sofa. This isn’t suicide. It’s Billy Flinch. A solo William Tell game where you try to shoot an apple off your head with a ricochet. I don’t think Mike is very good at it but you have to give him points for perseverance. There are at least a hundred holes in the sofa’s backside. Mike fires three more times without coming close to the shot glass on his brainless head. When the gun goes click click, Mike drops out the empty clip and reloads it from a box of bullets next to him.

I say, “Hi, Mike,” and a handful of bullets go flying. The shot glass falls and shatters on the floor. He turns and looks at us with red hangover eyes, pointing the empty gun at us.

So this is what someone looks like when they’ve sold their soul. His face isn’t streaked with dirty sin signs like other people. It’s a thick liquid black like someone held him down and painted him with hot tar.

“Who the fuck are you?” he says in a high slurred voice.

“The friend of a friend who said you know things about things.”

“What kind of things?”

“To start with, what happens to little boys who sell their soul? You’ve had a good run, Mike. Now it’s time to collect.”

I take off my glove and stick the Kissi index finger in the barrel of his 9mm. Lift it from his hand and drop it on the sofa. He falls onto his ass and crab-walks backward across the floor. It’s an impressive sight considering how drunk he is.

“Twenty years! That was the deal! I’m just starting to break into the bigger markets.”

Mike gets up and stumbles to his worktable. He picks up the mechanical python.

“See this? It’s for Indrid Cold. A hot-shit demon wrangler. She came to me off a recommendation from another big shot. I’m starting to do for the high-and-mighties. You can’t take me now.”

Mike might be a drunk but the snake looks like good work. Mike is a Tick Tock Man, the modern equivalent of what medieval Sub Rosas would have called a Raven Maker. Tick Tock Men and Raven Makers create spirit familiars. Raven Makers out of flesh and bones. Tick Tock Men out of wood and metal. The kind of Sub Rosa that use familiars aren’t usually the kind that has the money to have them built to spec. However, for rich witches and well-heeled Sub Rosa groupies, having multiple familiars is a status symbol. Like rich people owning summer and winter homes.

Seeing as how I already have Mike against the ropes, there’s no reason to change my story.

“I know the deal was for twenty years, but if this is the best you’ve done with your time, I might have to call in your soul early on account of you pickling the thing like a county-fair gherkin.”

“No. Please. What do you want? You want a cat? No. A lion for someone as powerful and glorious as you. And maybe a puppy for your lady friend?”

“A puppy?” says Candy. She picks up a wood chisel and points it at him like a knife. “How about I nail some wheels on you and ride you around like a toy horse. Would you like that, rummy?”

I gently put my hand on her arm and lower the chisel to her side.

“What my associate is getting at is that we’re in the soul market, not the low-rent bribe market. Do you have anything else to offer?”

“You asked about information. What do you want to know? Lots of people want familiars who can’t afford them. I trade them for info on bigwigs. Ask me anything. I bet I can help out.”

I look at Candy. She smiles. I think she might like a puppy but she’d never admit it.

“I’m looking for an angel. He was in town until recently. People say he killed the mayor’s son.”

“Oh. That guy. Yeah, I heard about him. What do you want to know?”

“Where I can find him.”

Mike shakes his head.

“If I tell you, I get my soul back?”

“No, Mike. It’s not that easy. First, the information has to be real and worth my time. I won’t know that until I check it out. Second, you’re not going to get your soul for a lousy address. I got your address for nothing.”

Mike takes a shop rag from his back pocket and nervously wipes his dirty hands.

“What else do you want from me?”

“Watch your tone, pony boy,” says Candy.

Mike looks like he’s about to keel over.

“Blue Heaven,” he says.

“What’s Blue Heaven?”

Mike shrugs and sits down behind the worktable. Picks up the bottle of vodka and takes a pull.

“I don’t know a lot about it.”

He starts to offer me the bottle but takes another look at the generic label stained with greasy fingerprints and changes his mind.

“All I know is it’s a bitch to get into. Like the most exclusive after-party in the universe. You have to know someone.”

“Sounds like a good place to hide from killers,” says Candy.

“Or the girl,” he says. “She’s killed like a dozen Sub Rosa. She tried to cut your angel. That’s when he disappeared. She’s scarier than anything else around here.”

He smiles at me hopefully.

“Except you, of course.”

“Don’t suck up, Mike. Not until you’ve had a shower. You say the ghost tried to kill Saint James?”

“If that’s the angel, then yeah. Went for him on Sunset in front of a whole tour bus full of witnesses. She got a piece of him too. The girl isn’t subtle.”

“Why would she be? She’s dead.”

I turn my back on Mike and whisper in Candy’s ear. Mike looks nervous. He takes big gulps from the bottle.

“I’ve heard of poltergeists that can toss cups and saucers around, but never one that hacks people up like Jason Voorhees. Have you?”

“No. I haven’t.”

“Remember when the girl came into Bamboo House?”

“Yeah.”

“I tried to grab her and missed. She could have cut me but she didn’t. She said something funny.”

“What?”

“ ‘You’re not one of his.’ ”

“Do you know what it means?”

“Not a clue. Maybe Saint James? Maybe Blackburn?”

“Maybe Colonel Sanders.”

“Yeah. There’s an annoying number of possibilities.”

Mike is on his feet when I look back at him, the vodka cradled in his arms like a newborn baby.

“Let me get this straight. All you can tell me about Saint James is that he’s someplace you don’t know about and that you don’t know how to get to. A dead girl tried to kill him but you don’t know why or who the girl is or where she’s from. Does that sum things up?”

“That’s everything, man. I swear. Can I have my soul back now?”

“That’s not even a postcard, Mike. That’s not even a phone number scrawled on a cocktail napkin. Do you really think that’s worth a soul?”