Wizards, Inc.

THERE were lots of reasons I hated Johnny Dawes. The way he slapped my back as he entered Club Flesh was fast moving up on the list. It hurt. He always caught me on the scar from the bullet that had shattered my left shoulder blade.

It was easy for him to hit me there. He’d been the one who pumped that bullet into me. That one, and a couple more.

He stared at me with cold, dark eyes. I’d heard it said he’d once killed with a glance. I almost let myself believe it. His gaze did send a chill through me, but the club’s dark, stuffy heat warmed me again fast.

‘‘Perfect.’’ Dawes purred the word, and Eddie’s face brightened. That tone, that smile; Dawes was feeling generous. He expressed it with C-notes, and they came in showers. That made everyone around Club Flesh happy—servers, dancers, even the other bouncers.

Hell, me, too. I was no Boy Scout. I took my cut. I always used it to buy myself the biggest, bloodiest steak I could find.

Eddie gave me a glance and shook his head. ‘‘I don’t know why you don’t like him, Trick. Guys like that don’t have to be generous.’’

I nodded. Dawes was the sort of sugar daddy all girls dreamed of. Tall, slender, dark and handsome, a flashy dresser without resorting to cheap jewelry, he could have stepped off a fashion-show runway in Milan or New York. The touch of gray at his temples made him more distinguished. Even the banded collars and slender black chokers he wore, with that big ruby brooch at his throat, made him look sinister—and lots of girls squealed over that.

‘‘Nope, Eddie, it ain’t that.’’ I turned away from the bar, hoping Eddie wouldn’t continue. He already knew all the reasons I hated Dawes—the shooting, being framed for a crime that got me busted from the force, Chrystale, all that. Just none of them worked for him. He kept trying to find the real reason.

Eddie jammed the bottle of champagne into the ice bucket with a wet crunch. ‘‘It’s a talent-thing, right?’’

‘‘Prolly.’’ Like anyone else who couldn’t use magick, for Eddie, the mysteries of life became explained by magick. Since the vast majority of people had no talent, they flat didn’t believe it existed or were very afraid of it. Sometimes both—which is why televangelists flourish still. Those of us with talent could spot it in others.

Music shifted, began to pound. I knew the song well. I thought of it as her song. It defined her. I’d be sleeping, hear it faintly through a wall, and she’d creep into my dreams. A woman on the street humming it would seem that much prettier. I’d ridden elevators playing a Muzak version well past my floor, chuckling that private way you do after leaving a sweaty night with your lover.

Chrystale. She took center stage wearing a white gown slit to the hip. White stockings clung to her long, slender legs. Golden hair cascaded to the small of her back, rising as she spun, exposing her bare spine. My fingers tingled, caressed with distant memories. Her blue eyes flashed, warm, challenging; her smile daring the men in the club to approach her. A proffered dollar might get a laugh. Five, a hug. More would get dreams, and more might make them come true.

Fat wallets bulimically vomited money. Patrons would remember the night as enchanting. They couldn’t help but. All the dancers at Club Flesh had talent. It was part of the business. Most were minor glamor girls. A few were sirens.

Chrystale was a full-blown enchantress. With a whisper and a caress she could make any man believe he was the most desirable man in the world. He’d keep believing it as long as he paid. The lucky ones might even believe it a little bit longer.

Chrystale had talent, tons of it, but talent alone isn’t enough. Magick isn’t the simple flash-bang crap Holly-wood tosses on the screen. If you’re gonna use it, you have to find your trigger—the thing that frees your magick to work.

She’d found it: music. Any music would do, fast, slow, didn’t matter. But when it was a song she connected with, that was something special. She could put a smile on the faces at Mount Rushmore.

In addition to your trigger, you had to figure out your channel. For most of us it was something simple—earth, air, fire, water, that kind of thing. Some joked that Chrystale’s channel was wood. If it had been, she’d have been doing erotic puppet shows with marionettes. Instead she pulled customers’ strings.

Her channel was more esoteric. It was rare. Emotion, seduction, love, maybe. Even someone with talent couldn’t be sure what his channel was. If you found out, you never told anyone. It could make you vulnerable.

Lastly, you had to handle the power. Most talents were barely practical. A guy with chili peppers as a trigger and fire as a channel might need to down a bushel basket before he could light a cigarette. To get that right, he’d have to practice a lot, too. Most folks didn’t have the smarts or patience to put it all together.

But there were exceptions. Chrystale had learned to handle the power early in her life. I’d heard dozens of stories. She needed it to handle a perverted uncle. Maybe she was sold as a slave to some emir. Why she learned doesn’t matter. Even sitting far from the stage, I could feel it—and I was the last person she wanted to be attracting. I just caught the overflow from what she was using on the knot of bikers stage front.

Her overflow was what made me miss the itch at first. I should have picked up on him the second the guy walked in. Massive and built, he wore tan jeans and a jacket. The denim jacket had the same club colors the others wore. That should have told me something right there. Most gangs don’t allow variant uniforms.

This guy was all variant. He had his blond hair in a Mohawk. He had a hard look on his face. Every guy who came in thinking he was going to score some pussy tried to look tough. Quick on, though, they smile, hopeful against hopeless. But this guy, rigor mortis had set in on his face.

The itch came when he started for Chrystale. The guy might tip. He might not. One thing was for sure. He was going to cause trouble.

‘‘Shit.’’ I didn’t have time to argue. I reached over and grabbed the bottle of twelve-year-old Tullamore Dew. I popped the spout off and took a hard pull. The whiskey burned down my throat. Another swallow, then I set the bottle down and wiped my mouth on my sleeve. Sliding off the barstool, I cut around past VIP. I approached the stage from opposite the guy. For just a second I could feel Dawes behind me, his eyes boring into me.

I shot a glance in his direction, but his stare got eclipsed. Brittnee, a new hire, barely a glamor girl, had plunked herself in his lap. She wanted him because he was dangerous. Not as dangerous as Chrystale. Watch your back, little girl. Dawes was a cold-blooded killer, but Chrystale did it with green-eyed fury.

I locked back onto Mr. Mohawk. Getting closer, the itch dug in with claws. He felt it, too. It tore him away from looking at Chrystale. That took some powerful magic. His face hardened, and his hands knotted. He felt he was up to it.

Barely a dozen feet apart, our talents ran up against each other. I saw him through magic. It wasn’t the sort of picture I wanted to be seeing. Most guys would be leopard-spotted with weaknesses. Pick one. Bang. They’re gone.

This guy glowed gold like a knight in armor. That usually meant his channel was fire. That intense a glow and he was triggered to the gills.

Light coalesced in the palm of his right hand. It grew into a knife about a foot long. He gave me a hard stare and growled. ‘‘You really don’t want the kind of trouble I am.’’

Blue plasma pooled in my palm. I opened my hand and it shot up to eye-level, like water from a fountain.

I shrugged. ‘‘It ain’t the size of the ship, but the motion of the ocean . . .’’ The blue light pulsed again, rising, falling, up and down, swelling and shrinking. It got a little warm—the temperature of beer that’s been left out too long, left out until it becomes flat and sour. Stale. Stale beer, just rocking in your stomach, rocking with the motion of a boat on the ocean. A small boat rising and falling with the swells, the endless swells that slosh the warm stale beer around . . .

Mr. Mohawk jackknifed forward and vomited all over one of his buddies. His golden glow gone, he landed on his knees, then plopped face-forward in a puddle of vomit. His body convulsed. A bit more beer jetted from him. He slackened.

Such was Chrystale’s hold on her audience that the biker wearing Mohawk’s last six-pack barely knew he was wet. Anyone who had seen the man go down wouldn’t remember anything but his standing, turning gray, and puking. They’d not remember me or the confrontation.

In fact, if it weren’t for the screaming, chances were they’d only remember Chrystale. The scream slashed into Chrystale’s music. Discord killed her magic. Brittnee hit notes no human throat should ever produce. She created sounds no one could have turned into beauty.

I spun. Brittnee, hands clawed and covering her bare breasts, had slid from Johnny Dawes’ lap. Blood drenched her. Her eyes were stark in a glistening, fluid mask. Another gush of blood choked off her scream.

Johnny had slumped back on the couch. His head lolled to the side. The problem was that his head lolled two feet to the side. His heart pumped gushers of blood to drip down the wall.

‘‘Gotcha, Trick. I’m pouring two.’’ He smiled. ‘‘I ain’t sure what it does for you, but I know what it will do for me. After seeing that, though, I don’t think it will be enough.’’

You’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead. I was in a mood to scream it. I wasn’t sad Dawes was dead. I liked it.

What I didn’t like was feeling cheated. He tried to kill me. He got me busted from the force. He stole my woman. He then offered me a job. He was the only one who would in this town.

I glanced up. Detective Winston Prout stood there, his face all mashed up like someone was trying to juice it for disgust. He wore white from head to toe, including a straw skimmer of the kind that died in the big Depression before last. It should have stayed dead. Even his shoulder holster was white. He would’ve owned a white pistol, too, but gunpowder does stain.

He also had no talent. I’m not referring to magick, either. Fact that he caught this case meant two things. Top brass didn’t give a crap about who did it. They liked Bennie Saint for it, and that’s who Prout would give them. Unless, of course, he found a way to toss me into the mix.

The guys from the meat wagon pulled the stretcher out of VIP One. Where they put his head under the sheet made it look like he’d died of elephantiasis. Fitting. Guys always said he had balls the size of watermelons.

‘‘Detective, you have something to ask me? You know we’re not going to discuss the ‘good old days.’ ’’

‘‘Look, Molloy, I was in Internal Affairs, and your case fell to me. Now I’m in Homicide and caught this. You dirty in this one, too?’’

Just for a second I glanced at him through magick. Looked like he had black measles. One hit. One poke. So tempting. So very tempting.

I let it go. ‘‘Here’s the deal. I woulda been happy to slag Dawes. I was hoping to get evidence that he framed me. He was worth more to me alive than dead.’’

Prout scratched a note into his PDA. ‘‘He was seeing Chrystale Malvin, right? Stole her from you?’’

‘‘Yeah.’’ I looked past him at where Chrystale was huddled under a blanket, face streaked with mascara. A policewoman, a uniform, was talking to her. I don’t think Chrystale was hearing much, though. She just clutched a cup of coffee. I was hoping Eddie spiked it good.

I studied Prout’s face. Good little churchgoer like he hated being in Club Flesh. It repelled him. And it attracted him. He’d be dreaming about it for a long time. And praying about it for longer.

Prout flinched. ‘‘Who else has a motive? Bennie Saint? Mrs. Dawes? The girl he was doing when he died?’’

‘‘Bennie, sure? They split the profits from the rackets. Easier to divide by one, you know?’’ I leaned back against the bar and spread my arms out. ‘‘Britnee? No chance. She thought she could replace Chrystale. Not the first. Wouldn’t have been the last.’’

‘‘You asked her, so you know.’’ I shook my head. ‘‘I didn’t see anything like that.’’

‘‘Yeah, that’s me. I work in a club with a hundred women prancing through here half naked, and I have one-itis for a stripper? I’ve had more women than you’ve had wet dreams. Next question.’’

‘‘Don’t know her. You’ll have to ask her.’’ I shrugged again. ‘‘I’ll tell you this. If she was and she did this, she’s been damned patient.’’

Prout nodded, then lowered his voice and moved closer. ‘‘I think this was talent related. You feel anything?’’

‘‘Hey, Prout, I ain’t freaking Gandalf. The coroner has some forensic talent. Ask her.’’ I leaned forward, too, lowered my voice. ‘‘What did him?’’

I sat back, surprise all over my face. If it was magick, if it involved an enchanted device, that was highly specialized talent. If there was a hitter running around with that sort of ability . . . I ran a finger around to loosen my collar.

‘‘You should have paid attention at the academy. They covered bribery.’’ Prout snorted. ‘‘Oh, yeah, you majored in it.’’

I wanted to kick him in the nuts hard enough that they’d nail his hat to the ceiling. I let that urge go, too. Not sure why. I guess it was because I figured he didn’t have any balls.

He made a note of that, then gave me a nod. Dismissive. I would have kicked him for that, but he moved on.

I levered myself away from the bar and crossed over to where Chystale was sitting. I nodded to the uniform. Friendly. She returned it and backed away a bit. I sat and pulled a chair closer.

‘‘Anything. Not now. You can’t think that this . . . that Johnny’s dying . . . that it changes anything between us.’’

‘‘Hey, I know you’re the one that broke my heart. I’m still looking for pieces. But I also know you were the one who came to intensive care. You were there. You snuck me whiskey. Doctors think it was a miracle.’’

‘‘It was Tully Twelve.’’ She swiped fingers over her cheeks, smearing them black. ‘‘It was that bitch, Britnee. She stole my perfume and doused herself. She said it would make Johnny fall for her.’’

Chrystale shook her head. ‘‘I don’t care.’’ She looked over at me, her eyes still beautiful despite the silence. ‘‘Did you know I was quitting? Two months. Johnny and I were going to go away.’’

My eyes narrowed. ‘‘Remember what you said to me that first time? When we were laying there all tangled in the sheets? You told me, ‘Never fall in love with a stripper because, at some point, we’ll lie to you.’ You never did to me. Don’t start now.’’

She snorted, then sniffed and snagged a tissue from the box between her feet. ‘‘You’re an idiot. I lied to you from the start. I lied when I told you I loved you, and I kept on lying. Then Johnny came along. He was better.’’

Her words came cold and gushed into my guts. The whiskey should have been warm in my belly, but it froze over. Ice needles skewered my stomach. I would have puked, but they kept everything caged in down there.

I gave myself a second, and the obvious question came out. ‘‘What did you lie to him about?’’

‘‘I told him you were a better lover than you ever were.’’ She looked at me. ‘‘Why are you making me do this to you? Just go away.’’

I went to work on Prout, and he questioned Chrystale a second time. I didn’t listen. I guess he got all the same answers because he released her. She wandered into the dressing room and changed. Out of her heels, wearing baggy sweats and a baseball cap, you’d never have known who she was.

She looked at me. Her expression said ‘‘Don’t even try to tell me you don’t know where I live,’’ but then she shook her head. ‘‘Can’t go there. Too many memories. Take me to your place.’’

I did as commanded and tucked her into my bed. I closed the door and sat on the couch thinking. That’s a dangerous thing for a man with a belly full of whiskey who can work magick. I opened my hand, and the blue plasma gathered. It flowed into a simulacrum of Chrystale. She stood in my palm and then, matching the music running through my head, she began to dance.

I would have kept watching well past dawn, but my phone rang. The ringtone made Chrystale go all spastic. I closed my hand, then answered the phone. ‘‘Trick. Make me happy.’’

She did. Cate Chase, the county coroner, shared my hatred of Johnny Dawes. He’d given her some of the toughest cases she’d ever seen. Not a single conviction, either. Having him on her table was enough to make her millennium.

She confirmed what Prout had said. The choker had garroted him cleanly. ‘‘Magick, no doubt. Interesting enchantment, too. Can you come down here? You got to see this.’’

Cate Chase was one of those women that frustrate their mothers. ‘‘You’d be so pretty, dear, if you lost a few pounds. You have such nice bone structure.’’ It was true of Cate, but the bone structure fitted a linebacker, not a ballerina.

For a linebacker, she was hot. Two months in a gym, some roadwork, and she’d have pulled long green at Club Flesh. Guys always have that amazon fantasy. Red hair, creamy skin that never saw the sun, she’d have been a star. She even had talent, but being able to analyze stomach contents with magick has limited value on the stage.

‘‘Naw. Anyone complains, Johnny’s head shows up in their bed.’’ She waved me over to a table where she’d set up one of those Styrofoam wig stands. She took the choker out of a plastic bag and slipped it around the neck on the stand. She tightened it up, then centered the ruby.

‘‘This was on the outside of his shirt, right?’’ She grabbed a square bottle of cologne. ‘‘He wore Warlock by Michael Kors. Hundred bucks a fluid ounce, but just a dab will do you.’’

She spritzed it over the neck and choker. I caught the scent in the back draft. Citrus, some flowers, some spice I recognized from Singh’s House of Curry. I didn’t like it, but Johnny hadn’t worn it for me.

‘‘Okay. So one of the girls there wears this. She must do well. Pricier than Warlock.’’ Cate extended the perfume bottle as if it were bug spray and pumped it once. The perfume puffed out, a thin, musky cloud that drifted down slowly.

Crack! The choker contracted, popping the head off the wig stand. It flipped up and bounced down, rolling to a rest two feet away. Just like Johnny’s head.

I went to reach for the choker and the ruby brooch, but Cate slapped my hand away. ‘‘You’ll lose a finger.’’

‘‘It would have if some tinker were putting it together. This was definitely talent.’’ She poked a pencil down behind the brooch and lifted the choker. ‘‘The magick got triggered when the two scents mixed. The girl had some Possession on her wrist and slipped her hands around his neck. The magic tightened the fibers in the fabric, and Mr. Dawes lost his head.’’

‘‘This magick is dirt common.’’ She smiled. ‘‘You’re wearing jeans. What the hell do you think ‘shrink to fit’ means?’’

‘‘Takes some learning, but it’s not an unknown skill.’’ Her smile broadened. ‘‘Turns out that many folks in the laundry business use something similar for getting out stains.’’

I should have cleaned up before I went to visit Mrs. Dawes, but I didn’t want to go back to my place and disturb Chrystale. I’d never been to Dawes’ house, but I knew where it was. Everyone did. Up in Union Heights. Not the biggest house, not the highest on the hill, but real nice. Could have fit my apartment in the pool house and Club Flesh in the garage.

A little Latina answered the door and conducted me into a book-lined study. Books had been bought by the yard by some decorator. The dark brown of leather spines and shelves contrasted with the pastel lime on the walls and carpet. Massive room, lots of windows looking out over the city. At noon it was light, airy. At night, the view would be spectacular.

Same could be said of the widow. Brunette, olive skin, shorter than Chrystale, but with many of the same curves. She dressed well, really well. Her heels weren’t platforms. Her skirt matched the gray jacket on a chair. The ivory blouse had the collar up, but enough buttons had been undone that I could see a little lace and a lot of cleavage. Full lips and large brown eyes in a strong face. When she smiled, it looked genuine.

Even though she showed far less flesh than most of the young girls coming to the club, I found her hot. Dawes had been a fool. I’d known that all along. Now I just knew how much of a fool.

She glanced down, heavy lashes hiding her eyes. ‘‘I abhor nicknames. Patrick would be your given name?’’

‘‘I know. He was the local Godfather.’’ I raised a hand. ‘‘Don’t get your Irish up. I know he did good things with some of his money. When Johnny hooked up with you, your father split the business between him and Bennie Saint, then retired to Tucson. Johnny wasn’t as good as your father.’’

‘‘Why’d you stay with him? You had to know he was sticking it to anything with two X chromosomes.’’

A little fire played in her eyes, but I didn’t get the itch. ‘‘Love can be emotional and physical. I didn’t care what he did with his body. His heart was my concern. That’s all I care to say on that matter.’’

Altair waved me to one of those stick-and-cloth chairs older than the country. I sat easy, waiting for it to crack. She seated herself in its mate. She did a better job of it.

‘‘I understand you believe my husband had you framed and thrown off the force. He falsified information that you had taken bribes.’’

‘‘It might be that within his papers, there is some form of evidence—exculpatory evidence—that would exonerate you. I would offer you a trade. That evidence for your services.’’

‘‘You still have ties to the police. They are stone-walling my lawyers, but we both know they will be considering me a prime suspect. I want to know what they know.’’

‘‘Let us imagine that I came to believe my husband’s affections were wandering away in more than just the physical realm.’’ She kept her voice strong, and studied her nails the way a cat inspects its claws. ‘‘Let us further imagine I might have discussed with an individual if there was a way to work an enchantment on one of his chokers to have it tighten slightly— slightly, mind you, nothing more—under certain circumstances.’’

‘‘That’s a lot more imagination than I got.’’ I leaned forward, ignoring the chair’s protest. ‘‘Did you talk to someone about that? The cleaners who do your stuff?’’

Altair shook her head. ‘‘I’ve given you enough to see why I have concerns. Do we have a bargain or not?’’

I stood. ‘‘Look, lady, I don’t know if you whacked your husband or not. I don’t care. If you did, I’d shake your hand, kiss your ass, whatever you wanted. But if I do what you want, and you did kill him, then the cops will haul me in with you as an accessory after the fact, for conspiracy and any other charges they want to make up. Did you do for Johnny Dawes or not?’’

A bunch of things clicked together in my head. ‘‘You thought you could mention this idea to him, show him Johnny was vulnerable. You give him a shot at killing his rival. Was that enough, or did your physical affections wander, too?’’

‘‘No, it’s not. See, I have to figure something.’’ I watched her for a reaction. ‘‘I have to figure if you were innocent, if you did what you did knowing what you were doing, or if you did it figuring to have your husband killed and have Bennie fingered for it. They go away, and daddy’s little girl gets the business. That’s it, isn’t it? It’s all business for you?’’

‘‘That answer is well above your pay grade, Mr. Molloy.’’ She smiled primly. ‘‘The question is are you and I going to do business?’’

The short answer was yes. Over the next week it got to feeling like I was almost back on the force. It was like it had been before. I’d be out, sniffing around, meeting guys at coffee shops, donut stands, diners, even the club. Some guys would talk, others would just glare. It split along the lines of who thought I’d been framed and not. More in the not camp, but I’d known that.

I even shadowed the shadowers. I went to the Dawes funeral, dressed up in my best suit. Chrystale helped me tie the tie. I went, watched for folks. Big Bennie Saint was front row with the mourners. If Altair had gotten physical with him, she was either in love or really dedicated. I’d heard Bennie once found a princess enchanted into a frog, but when he went to kiss her, she croaked that she didn’t date outside her species.

Prout showed up, both at the church and when they slid Johnny into the Battielle Mausoleum. He had guys taking pictures and writing down license numbers. I got some good shots of him, too. The nose picking one will be useful, I’m sure.

For all that work, though, I heard nothing. I knew Altair would keep me on a string until someone fell for the crime. Prout and his bosses were pushing for Bennie to go. Had I been in Prout’s shoes, I’d have coached a confidential informant into being an eyewitness. It wasn’t like Saint was a Saint, after all.

Best part of that ten days was Chrystale. She was still torn up. Torn up real bad. Strippers might lie to you, but mobsters, they die on you. One is worse than the other. I felt for her, I really did.

She got all apologetic about kicking me out of my own bed, but she didn’t offer to share. She did clean up some. She would have done laundry, but she couldn’t understand why I insisted on buying new shirts instead of washing the old. She cooked. She always could cook. She even made me a couple of the things I remembered from before.

We were sitting on the couch, soft music playing. She looked at me. ‘‘I probably should be going, Trick.’’

‘‘You don’t have to.’’ I wanted to reach out and just pull her to me, just to hold her. Nothing more, really. But I didn’t. ‘‘You can stay as long as you want.’’

‘‘No, I can’t, Trick.’’ She picked up the remote and killed the pod. ‘‘Look at me now, without the music.’’

‘‘But I could have. I wanted to.’’ She’d pulled her hair back into a ponytail and tied it with a red scrunchy. ‘‘It’s my nature, Trick. I want people to see the best of me, and that means they see through magick.’’

I took one of her hands in mine. ‘‘No, baby, that’s not it. You don’t have to use magick with me. You just have to be yourself.’’

‘‘But that’s who I am, Trick. I’m Chrystale. I play with your heart, then I break it. That’s all I’m good for.’’

‘‘Then it’s all I’m good at.’’ She pointed the remote at the pod again. ‘‘Do you want me to start it? Do you want me to wrap you up in music, in me? I’ll squeeze you tighter than that choker. You’ll forget everything. Who you are, what we’ve done, you’ll remember none of it. Is that what you want?’’

‘‘No. I don’t want that.’’ I shook my head, then reached out for the remote. She let me take it. ‘‘All I want is to know why you feel you have to go.’’

She glanced down, and falling tears dappled her gray sweats. ‘‘I have to go because if I don’t, I’m never going to want to leave.’’

She left later that night. I helped her pack. She said she’d bring the duffel bag back to me. She lied. We both knew it, but it was a lie I could live with. When the door closed behind her, I retreated to my bedroom. I dove into the bed and wrapped myself up in sheets that smelled of Possession and Chrystale.

I didn’t get to sleep as long as I wanted. Half asleep I answered the phone. Cate’s voice, not Chrystale’s. Images in my dream shifted, going places I didn’t want to. That brought me fully awake.

I pictured the intersection. I ruled out the two chain coffeehouses and the bodega. ‘‘Solomon Meier, tailor?’’

I’d only met Meier once, and I’d felt the itch. A body we figured Dawes had killed had been clutching an ivory button. I made the rounds, looking for anyone who could identify it or might be asked to replace it. Meier said he didn’t know it, but would get in touch if someone wanted it replaced. The boys in organized crime later told me they had a file on him. He specialized in fitting suits to make shoulder holsters invisible.

Cate found me, gave me a visitor tag and led me to the alley behind the shop. The body lay crumpled beside a dumpster. ‘‘When I saw him before, Cate, his head was a lot more round.’’

‘‘Tire irons will create some havoc.’’ She pointed. ‘‘The murderer waited behind the dumpster, clubbed him good, even stepped in his brains as he was leaving. Size thirteen, nice shoes. We’ll match them easy.’’

I glanced down at the mortal remains of Solomon Meier one last time, then Cate’s aides shooed the house flies from his face and started tucking him into a body bag. ‘‘He looks a little stiff. How long?’’

Prout came trotting over with a triumphant grin that even my presence couldn’t erase. ‘‘Just got a call from the Dawes house. Half hour ago, gunshots. Murder-suicide, the widow and Bennie Saint. He did her, then himself.’’

I connected the dots for them. I didn’t tell them I’d talked to the widow. I just speculated. Cate remained skeptical. Prout listened like he was at a revival meeting.

Then he decided to give his testimony. ‘‘It all fits. Meier did the magick, probably tried for a payoff to keep his mouth shut. Bennie goes to the widow to tell her they have a complication, but that he’s taken care of it. She tells him he’s an idiot, she doesn’t love him, and he’s going down. He kills her, then himself.’’

I was wrong on that count, of course. The brass believed it. So did the press. We’d gotten the trifecta inside two weeks. The local Syndicate had been decapitated. Made for great headlines. Changed nothing on the street.

I asked around. The cops who went through all the papers at the Dawes’ house never found any evidence I’d been framed. Most of them were sympathetic. Prout wasn’t smart enough to find it and stash it. It had to have been someone else.

Life continued, ’cept Chrystale left Club Flesh. Or she never came back. I didn’t know what happened to her. I tried not to care. It was tough.

Then, about a week after she’d left, a bottle of Knappogue Castle, the fifty-year-old stuff, arrived at my apartment. There was a note attached. ‘‘I’ll love you until the day I die. ~C’’

He came out of the darkness slowly. He walked as if without a concern in the world. ‘‘Come to pay your last respects?’’

I took another pull from the half-empty bottle, then set it down. ‘‘I came to piss on your grave. Nobody was home.’’

‘‘I got it. Cops never found the files your wife offered me to clear my name.’’ I shrugged. ‘‘You’re the only person who gained by having those files vanish.’’

‘‘Well done, Molloy.’’ Johnny Dawes laughed, but it didn’t come out right. Happens when you had your head stitched back on by a tailor. ‘‘You have no idea what you’re tangling with, whereas I know you inside and out.’’

I gathered the magick and looked at him through it. He became a man of onyx. Blackness meant weakness. Not here. It armored him, made him stronger.

‘‘That, and more. Everything. Whiskey is your trigger. You’re powerful, but not powerful enough.’’

Dawes’ head snapped up and tracked right to left. His eyes became a deeper dark. Black beams swept out. Something squealed above me. Wings flapping spasmodically, a bat slammed into the mausoleum.

I got it as he turned his gaze on me. Didn’t know what his trigger was. Champagne maybe? Didn’t matter. His channel, though. Death.

Black beams crushed me against the mausoleum. I hit my head. Stars exploded before my eyes. My magick faltered. My shield evaporated. Pain ripped through me. Three spots. The three entry wounds.

They’d been reopened. Blood started leaking. Bone cracked. Pieces of my shoulder blade ground in my back.

He chuckled. It wasn’t right at all and sent a chill through me. ‘‘Now you know, water boy. I’ll finish what I started.’’

‘‘I don’t need to.’’ He glanced at me again. He focused on my left arm. Muscles shrank. Fingernails got longer and brittle. Bones twisted with arthritis and liver spots dotted my flesh.

I invoked a shield and cut off his gaze. He pushed, I fought back. He relented. The shield closed around my arm like a cast, then slowly evaporated.

‘‘Nice healing trick. Now I understand how you survived in the hospital. It really is immaterial, however. Death is a higher order than water.’’

I reached back and pulled myself to my feet. ‘‘If you’re so strong, why use a gun on me, the tire iron on Meier?’’

‘‘You, I wanted you to hurt bad. Meier, I could have made it look like natural causes, but,’’ he shrugged, ‘‘a clumsy murder made getting rid of Bennie and Altair simple. They stroked with a glance, and gunshots scrambled the evidence. So easy.’’

‘‘But you’ll die anyway.’’ He stared hard at me, but I was ready this time. I raised a shield on my left arm, mostly blue, with shimmers of white worked through it. I didn’t block, I deflected. My shoulder screamed under the pressure, but I just needed a little time.

I gestured with my right hand. The blue plasma launched at him like a bullet. It hit him in the chest. Splattered like blue paint, then the droplets sank into the inky armor. Dawes shook, he shuddered and danced back a step.

‘‘My channel isn’t water.’’ I nodded at the whiskey bottle. ‘‘Whiskey. Comes from some Gaelic something. Means water of life. My channel, it’s life.’’

Dawes straightened up. ‘‘Idiot. I’m dead. I have become my channel. You’re not strong enough to affect me.’’

He hit me again, jamming the shield back against me. He pushed, pushed hard. I hit the mausoleum hard. The shield pressed in. My chest tightened. Pain grew. A rib popped, two. His black beams gnawed at my shield. I tried to reinforce it. I couldn’t.

He got through. Molten agonies geysered through my chest. Felt like stomach acid had gushed into my guts. Everything was on fire. My world began to close in. Darkness. Like before. Like when I’d been shot.

Then he screamed. It didn’t sound right either, but that was good. He staggered back, blinked. Looked at me plainly, his armor gone. ‘‘What did you do?’’

He began to claw at his own flesh. He tried to get at them, to kill them. He tried to kill them all, but he couldn’t. There were just too many.

Once, back before I was booted from the force, Cate promised me a good time. She took me to a place upstate called the Body Farm. On a secluded site forensic guys let bodies rot so they could see how it happened. Cate told me that inside of a week, maggots could consume sixty percent of a body’s mass.

That little pulse of life I’d hit him with woke them up. They hatched. They were hungry. They worked fast. Dawes’ flesh writhed as they moved beneath it. He clawed at his cheek. Flesh came away in his hand. Ivory maggots squirmed, dropping from face and fingers. One ate its way through his hand.

Dawes started dancing like a man on fire. He beat at invisible flames until his hands flew apart in a rain of bones. Then his gut began to expand, shredding clothes Solomon Meier had tailored. The bacteria in his guts merrily reproduced, releasing enough gas that he plumped right up. Pressure built, blew out at his left hip, dropping him.

She was waiting for me by the time I limped home. I understood the message with the bottle. It was what Dawes had said to her. He thought he was being clever, the way he used her. Then she learned the truth.