We’ve been on the freeway maybe five minutes when I spot the pickup truck. It’s not hard. It’s been on our tail since we got on the road. It’s white like a rental but the windows are tinted opaque black. There aren’t many rental companies that do that, and by “not many,” I mean none.

“We’re being followed.”

Candy turns and looks out the back window.

“Which one?”

“The white pickup.”

“Are you sure?”

“Let’s find out.”

I stomp the accelerator and the Porsche tears a hole in the traffic ahead. I squeeze between two SUVs as they’re changing lanes and cut off a cable-company truck trying to pass a wrecker on the shoulder. Candy turns and looks out the back.

“The pickup is still there.”

“Put on your seat belt.”

“You always sound so serious when you think we’re going to die.”

“I have an allergy to being dead.”

“I didn’t say I minded. I like it when you talk butch.”

“Good. Shut up and keep an eye on the truck for me.”

“Yes, sir.”

Of course the truck can keep up with a Porsche. It’ll be some of King Cairo’s crew in a pickup souped up with Aelita’s Golden Vigil tech. Outrunning the asshole isn’t an option. The only thing I can do is stay clear of it until one of us grows wings or runs out of gas.

I let the wrecker pass and when the traffic thins for a second I jerk the steering wheel, blasting the Porsche across all six lanes to the far side of the road. A second later the truck follows. I cut back a couple of lanes.

“They’re still on us,” says Candy.

There’s no way they think I’m Saint James. The first attack might have been a mistake but this is a straight-up hit.

I try to charge back over the way we came but we’re trapped between a lunch truck and a chop shop Camaro, the body covered in primer and all the doors different colors.

The pickup accelerates and rams us. I can’t hold the wheel. I sideswipe the lunch truck. We bounce off and tag the Camaro before I get control again. I floor the Porsche and we shoot ahead to an open spot in the traffic.

“Still there,” says Candy.

I aim the Porsche all over the road, changing lanes like I’m drunk, seasick, and snow-blind. The goddamn pickup stays on our tail.

I cut back to the slow lane and slide in between two sixteen-wheelers, drafting off the first. Bad idea. The pickup pulls alongside us and the front and rear windows roll down. I know what’s coming and don’t want to see it.

I jerk the wheel right, completely blind. Aiming for the shoulder of the road. Lucky for us there’s no one there. It’s shit news for the truckers though. The shooters in the pickup truck start firing their modified rifles. They miss us and hit the side of the rear truck. Rear and front tires blow. Shots hit the cab. I can’t tell if the driver is hit or not. The truck starts drifting into the pickup’s lane while its trailer slides in the opposite direction, pulling the rear of the truck around on the bad tires. It jackknifes, cutting off five of the six lanes. I hit the accelerator, trying to get ahead of the chaos. I do, but so does the pickup. It rams us again. And again. The little Porsche isn’t made for this kind of abuse. There’s a metallic grinding from the back like the rear axle is about to go.

There’s an overpass ahead. I look at Candy.

“Do you trust me?”

“I hate that question.”

“Do you trust me?”

“Yes.”

“Then undo your seat belt and put your head down on your knees.”

“I hate how this sounds.”

“Don’t worry. It gets worse.”

The pickup moves up to ram us again. I stay ahead until just before the overpass. And stomp the brakes, pulling up on the handbrake at the same time. The pickup can’t slow and hits us at full speed, driving up the rear of the car and over the top like we’re a ramp. I throw myself on top of Candy. Wrap my arms around her. The car roof smashes down on my back but stops when it hits the armor. The weight of the truck is suddenly gone and we start to slow. From below I hear the sound of crashing metal and exploding glass. The Porsche slows and comes to a stop, grinding against the guardrail.

I slam my back against the roof a few times and manage to raise the crushed metal a few inches. When I have enough room to move my legs, I kick out the driver-side door, slide out, and run around to Candy’s side. Her door is jammed so tight that I can’t even get a good grip. I climb on top and drive the black blade through the roof, slicing it and prying it open like a sixty-thousand-dollar oyster. Candy looks up at me through the hole.

“This is what you mean by ‘trust me’?”

“You’re alive, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, but I’m developing what are called trust issues.”

“I’m sure Allegra knows some good shrinks. Reach up your hand and I’ll get you out of there.”

We get a ride into Hollywood in a station wagon with a family from Houston. I agree with them that we’re damned lucky to walk away from an accident like that with just a few scratches. Luckier than the pickup that went off the overpass and crashed onto the street below. They drop us on Hollywood Boulevard near Allegra’s clinic, and when I try to give the dad some money he waves it off.

“I’m sure you’d do the same for someone stranded. Just pass the good fortune along.”

Candy and I look at each other and I know we’re thinking the same thing.

Who knew people not playing angles or hustling something still existed. I thought they’d died out with the triceratops. I feel funny now. A little dirty. Like maybe I contaminated their car with bad luck. I wonder if they would have given us a ride if they knew I was the Lord of the Underworld. What’s funny is I think they would have.

Nice people are fucking weird.

Carlos is sitting up in a plastic chair in the clinic reception area. His arm and shoulder are still bandaged and smell of aromatic oils and potions.

I sit down next to him.

“Hey, man. I’m really sorry to get you mixed up in my shit.”

He laughs, patting his pockets.

“When haven’t I been mixed up in your shit? I met you on the day you got back from Hell, remember?”

“I guess so.”

“Yes so. I knew something like this could happen. It’s called a calculated risk. And now it’s happened and I’m walking away. It’s like I got a measles shot. I’m immunized. Nothing bad will ever happen to me again.”

“I’m not sure it works like that.”

“Of course it does.”

He gives up patting his pockets.

“You have any cigarettes? I’m dying for one. No pun intended.”

“I thought you didn’t smoke.”

“Only after surgery.”

“Sorry, but I gave my last one to a guy who sold his soul to the Devil.”

He sits up in his chair.

“I guess there’s some things worse than getting shot.”

“Not many. Anyway, I hear the guy is such a fuckup he’s getting his soul back. Even the Devil doesn’t want it.”

“I must have missed that day at Catholic school. The nuns never told us that being a dumb-ass was a weapon against the Devil.”

“Now you know.”

He leans forward, propping his good elbow on his knees.

“Don’t apologize for any of this. Remember when you and your pretty squeeze killed all those zombies in the bar? Business doubled after that. With you back and ninjas going Wild West, I’m going to make a fortune.”

“As long as no one shoots the jukebox.”

“I’ll kill any cocksucker that touches my jukebox.”

“You’ve got someone to take you home?”

“My brother-in-law is going to give me a ride.”

“You never told me you were married.”

“I’m not. He’s really my ex-brother-in-law but I like him a lot better than my ex-wife.”

I get up and look around for Allegra.

“You take care yourself. Heal up before you reopen the bar.”

“I’m going to make so much money I’ll buy a Cadillac to drive me to my Lexus and drive that to my other Cadillac to drive to work.”