When Sam finished his song, he looked at Dov. "Here," he said, reaching into the small leather pouch that hung from his belt. He pressed something into Dov's hand. "Charms to guard her. Send these to your mother, since you can't be bothered to bring them to her yourself. Tell her that Sam Turkey Plucker sang for her spirit and also sends her his promise that he will perform a healing ritual for her body."

"Sam, you know what the company means to Mom—" Dov began.

"Kid, if you're fishing for my endorsement to have you take over E. Godz, Inc., forget about it."

"You mean my sister already saw you?" Dov silently cursed Peez for a shifty-souled varmint.

"I mean I'm not saying yes or no to you or your sister or anyone until I have to. Your mother's still alive; don't be in such a rush to divvy up what's still hers."

"I didn't mean to—"

"Hey, spare me the speech about how you're really doing all this for her, okay?" Sam started back for the Jeep. "My people have a long history of white folks telling us how whatever they do to us, with us, at us, it's all for only the best reasons. You know what they say about the road to hell being paved with good intentions?" Dov nodded. "Well, look around you." Sam's gesture embraced the endless miles of glorified goat tracks crisscrossing his home turf. "Not a lot of paving done out here at all."

* * *

"Ahhhh, decent air conditioning at last!" Ammi rested on the armrest tray of Dov's seat and basked in the blessed coolness of the L.A.-bound jet's first-class cabin. "No offense, boss, but your pants pocket was starting to smell like a prairie dog's armpit."

Dov said nothing. He was gazing out the window, watching the blood red mountains slip away beneath them.

"Hello?" Ammi probed. "Earth to Dov! Please tell me you're not deciding to go off on one of those cockamamie Vision Quest scams yourself! I can come up with about twenty- seven better ways to drop five grand over a weekend, and I'm just jewelry."

"It's not always a scam," Dov said absently. "He can do the real thing, but that's not what the customers want. They'd throw a fit if you served them coffee that wasn't hand- picked, hand-roasted, hand-ground and hand-brewed, but when it comes to spiritual fulfillment, they want it instant or not at all."

"Whoa. Sounds like he got to you big time." Ammi clicked his nonexistent tongue.

"I think he did." Dov pressed his forehead against the window.

"So does that mean we're heading back? Going to visit Edwina, see how she's doing?"

"And give Peez a chance to snatch the company right out from under me?" Dov sat up straight and knocked back his glass of single malt. "No way."

Peez stared out the window of her hotel room at the prospect of downtown Seattle. To the north, in the distance, the unmistakable shape of the Space Needle towered over the many and varied attractions of the great metropolis on Puget Sound. Flowers bloomed in a riot of gay colors in the city parks, museums bided patiently as drowsing dragons over their treasure troves of art and artifact, and if you listened really, really hard, you could swear that you heard the strains of all the different kinds of music that the city nurtured and enjoyed. Had she taken the trouble to go up to the rooftop restaurant, her journey would have been rewarded by a view of Mount Rainier, so far away yet somehow seemingly so close.

Peez did not bother. She had other matters on her mind.

"It's raining," she said.

"Gee," Teddy Tumtum said, trying not to sound too sardonic and failing miserably. "It's raining. In Seattle. In the springtime. Color me shocked. My gracious goodness me, what were the odds? And this just in: It is somewhat dry in the Sahara Desert."

"There's no need for you to get sarcastic with me." Peez scowled at the small stuffed cynic.

"Someone better," Teddy Tumtum countered. "It's the only thing that ever seems to motivate you.'

"How the hell is sarcasm a motivational tool?"

"Simple: You piddle around a task, not really doing anything about achieving it, I sneer that you'll never get it done because you haven't got what it takes, you get all hot to prove how wrong I am, and that's when you put your butt in gear and actually get the job done! It's been this way since you were in grade school, missy. I know; I was there, and what a long, boring trip it's been."

"That's not true!" Peez objected. "I'm a highly motivated self-starter."

"Buzzwords, bah! Then why have you been hanging out in this hotel room for the past twenty-four hours instead of going out there and making your next business call? Don't bother to answer, you'll only waste more time trying to come up with a lot of self- justifying blather. I'll tell you why: It's because Fiorella shot you down in flames and you're afraid that this next guy—whatzisname—is going to do the same. That'd mean two strikes on you, and you're totally convinced that your baby brother's been batting a thousand in the meantime."

To Teddy Tumtum's surprise, Peez didn't jump back at him to point out that Fiorella might have snubbed her, but Ray Rah and the Chicago mob had given her their wholehearted support. Instead she subsided into a hunched-over knot of glumness and muttered, "Yep. You're right, Teddy Tumtum. That's exactly why I've been putting off my next call. Sure, I told myself it was just because I was jet-lagged, but I couldn't even fool me with that one. Not when I've known how to do a Jet-lag Begone spell from the time I was twelve."

"What?" Teddy Tumtum's glass eyes almost bugged out of his head. "I must have a really big ball of loose stuffing in my ears. I could swear I just heard Peez Godz admitting defeat. That's not the girl I sleep with talking! So the witch-queen blew you off; so what? You've got those Egyptian guys on your side."

"Oh, please, that bunch of idiots?" Peez sighed. "That's not a religion, it's an extended frat party, a bunch of Baby Boomers trying to hold onto their youth with both hands and no holds barred on looking ridiculous. Why follow the Grateful Dead when you can mummify them?"

"Now who's being sarcastic?" Teddy Tumtum asked, folding his chubby arms.

"Doesn't it bother you, Teddy Tumtum?" Peez asked.

"Doesn't what bother me?"

"The fact that the Chicago group is about as spiritual as a sack full of tacos. At least Fiorella seems to believe that what she does is something more than just an excuse to wear funny costumes, get together with her old college pals, and party."

"Right, because she's got an excuse to wear sexy costumes, get together with a bunch of new people, and party."

"Oh, come on!" Peez exclaimed. "You know that's not true. She really does care about raising the power of the old earth magic. I can't vouch for her followers—for some of them, it probably is just an excuse to let it all hang out—but for Fiorella— It's not like that for her. I can tell. For her it's about real power, and she didn't want to have anything to do with me. I'm not worthy."

"And Dov is?" Teddy Tumtum snorted, then melted into more of his stomach- churning baby-talk mode. "Duzzums Peezie-pie need a dweat big warm mooshy dollop of self-esteem, hmmmm? Izzums all droopy-woopy 'cause 'ums t'ink dat nasty ol' baby bruvver got the chops an' 'oo doesn't?"

Just as Peez felt drops of syrup crystallizing on her eyelashes from all the sweet talk, the bear did an instant presto-changeo from goopy guru to boot camp drill sergeant and barked: "So ****ing what if he does, woman? He does not matter! Repeat: Dov Godz does not matter, what he may or may not be doing does not count, as far as you are concerned he does not exist from this second until the glorious moment of triumph when your mama passes full and complete control of E. Godz, Inc. into your hands. Do you copy that, soldier?"