Sandman Slim. Richard Kadrey

branch out like he’s covering himself with a gun.

      “What the fuck was that?” yells Carlos.

      “The Nazi asshole must have had a flare gun,” I lie.

      I walk over, drop the Luger on the bar, and push it to Carlos. “Merry Christmas. Don’t say I never gave you anything.”

      “What am I supposed to do with that?”

      “I don’t know. Put it up next to the tiki dolls.”

      “I don’t like guns. Is it loaded?”

      I pop the clip out, check it, and slide it back in. “Yeah. Keep it behind the bar. Those guys are going to come back. Not tonight, but sometime soon.”

      “You think so?”

      “Definitely.”

      “I still don’t want it,” he says, and pushes the Luger toward me. I flick on the safety and shove it into my jacket pocket. Carlos nods toward me. “You’re bleeding,” he says, and hands me a clean bar towel. I wrap it around the hand I used to grab the skinhead’s knife. The hand still hurts, but it’ll stop bleeding by the time I walk outside.

      Carlos leans on the bar. “So, what are you? Special Forces? Some kind of ninja?”

      “Yeah, I’m the ghost of Bruce Lee. You have a cigarette?” Carlos shakes his head. The moment is still burning bright for him, but it’s over for me. The rage has gone south and now I have a bigger problem. No question I was shot at by a magic weapon, but it was used by someone who had no idea what he was doing. I consider the possibility that Mason sent the skinheads, not to shake down Carlos, but to ambush me, only that doesn’t make any sense. If Mason decides to send a hit squad for me, he’ll make sure they know exactly what weapons they’re packing and how they work.

      So, what devil Kris Kringle is handing out death rays to pinheads?

      “Can I borrow your phone?” I ask. Carlos hands it to me and I dial the number of my old apartment. Vidocq picks up.

      THIRTY MINUTES LATER Vidocq and I are sitting in a doughnut shop on Sunset drinking coffee and eating. He’s paying. I’m close to tapped out. At least I spent Brad Pitt’s money well. Before Vidocq got to Donut Universe, I’d examined the motocross jacket for damage. The Kevlar did a pretty good job. None of the knife slashes made it through the armor down to me. All the damage was to the leather, and I could fix that with gaffer tape.

      “I’ve heard of power amulets like guns, but not like the one you describe,” says Vidocq. “But I think I know someone who will. I’ll introduce you soon.”

      The Frenchman puts a paper bag on the table. I take a bite of my Bavarian cream.

      “What’s that?”

      “Look for yourself,” he says, and pushes the bag at me. I open it and look inside. It’s full of shirts.

      “They are yours. You look like a fucking child in those video store things. You should wear your own clothes. They will help you remember who you are.”

      I roll down the top of the bag and put it on the seat beside me. I suppose I do look stupid in these shirts. In my head I’m still nineteen. Time is stuck there and it’s like a punch in the balls every time I look in the mirror. At least no one will bother me for ID when I buy beer now.

      But I don’t want to look at what’s in the bag right away. Part of me wants to burn everything Alice and I left behind eleven years ago. Another part wants to leave it all right where it is, frozen in time, like bugs trapped in amber. It never occurred to me to wear any of my old clothes again.

      “There was something weird and familiar about that amulet and I’ve been trying to remember what since I left the club.”