“You look very convincing,” says Sinclair.
“Except for the face,” says Sandoval. “Really, Stark, you’re much too ugly to be a Wormwood associate.”
I whisper some hoodoo and put on the glamour I used last night. Again, Sinclair and the roaches are startled. To Sandoval’s credit, she just looks me over like she’s selecting which lobster in the tank to eat for dinner.
She says, “Much better. Almost human.”
I adjust my tie in a mirror on the wall.
“Thanks. You’re looking pretty Maleficent yourself. Curse any kids today?”
“No, but Sinclair and I punched a lovely hole in the Japanese stock market.”
“It seemed a good time to bring down some Yakuza-controlled companies that have aligned themselves with the faction,” he says.
Sandoval grins broadly.
“There’ll be blood flowing in Tokyo tonight.”
“Sounds like fun,” I say. “Me, I prefer a good thriller. Ever seen The Usual Suspects?”
“Stop it. We don’t have time for your nonsense. And neither do you.”
I close in on her and Sinclair.
“I only bring it up because the whole story hinges on a huge lie. You see my point?”
Sinclair scratches his ear. A nervous tic.
“We did what we talked about. All of us.”
“So, everyone knows that a courier is going out?”
Sandoval says, “Calm down. We said as much as we could without being too obvious. If there’s a traitor in our organization, he or she knows that you’ll be moving an important package.”
There’s a briefcase lying on the pool table.
“What’s in it?”
“Random financial records,” says Sinclair. “Nothing the faction can use against us.”
I look at them both.
“You better not have fucked this up because my only other alternative is to start killing your staff and hope someone squeals.”
“Why don’t you just do that now?” says Sandoval. “That sounds more efficient than this courier scenario.”
“Sure. I could start with you and Barron. How do I know that this whole thing isn’t a setup? Maybe you two are the rats and you just want to see if anyone can get through to your faction pals.”
“Don’t be absurd. We’re the injured party.”
“Then don’t tell me who to kill and when. It unsettles my tranquil disposition.”
“We’ve done our part. Now you do yours,” says Sinclair.
Sandoval glances at her watch.
“The car will be here soon.”
I pick up the briefcase.
“Nice. What is this? Rattlesnake?”
“Alligator,” Sinclair.
“I knew it was something cold-blooded.”
Sandoval’s cell phone rings. She exchanges a few words and hangs up.
“The car is here. The driver knows where to take you. It’s one of our law offices in Westwood.”
“Do you know the driver?”
Sandoval gives me a look.
“Philip? He’s worked for me for years. I trust him.”
“I mean, if I get snatched, he might not be in shape to be your driver anymore.”
She looks at Sinclair. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
She looks back at me.
“That’s why we wanted you. Your sick little mind.”
“You have any spare drivers lying around? Ones you don’t like as much?”
“No. Do you, Barron?”
He shakes his head. “I’ve known my driver for years.”
“Just one big happy family,” I say.
I weigh the briefcase in my hand. It’s very light. That means there aren’t any bombs in case they change their minds about me.
“I’ll do my best to keep him alive. But if it comes down to him or me, well, you know.”
Sandoval glances at her roaches.
“Just do your job and leave the rest to us.”
Before I start for the door I say, “Where’s Howard?”
“In the library. Why?”
“I’ll try to keep the driver safe. You do the same with Howard.”
“Why do you think he might not be safe?” says Sinclair.
“No reason. It’s just that I’ll be very cranky if anything happens to him.”
Sandoval looks back at me.
“The car is waiting.”
Sinclair says, “Good luck.”
“Thanks.”
As I reach the front door Sandoval calls after me.
“Don’t get any grand ideas about betraying us or running off. The spell Howard used to bring you back is very specific and not something just any necromancer can duplicate.”
I open the door but pause. “That reminds me. Does Howard like movie trivia?”
“I don’t know. Who cares? What does that have to do with anything?”
“Just curious. If he brings me back right, I know the place to take him for a drink.”
IT’S A HOT day, even for L.A. The sky is clear, but the cat-piss smell of Sandoval’s eucalyptus trees makes the air feel heavy. The driver is holding the limo door open for me at the head of the circular driveway. I get in and it’s twenty degrees cooler. Is the driver from the Arctic or does he know about my not-quite-alive situation and think he needs to keep me on ice so I won’t stink? Or maybe he knows what’s going to happen next and he’s trying not to sweat. There’s nothing I can do to help that, so he better buckle up tight.
As he pulls away from Sandoval’s house and takes us out through the gates of the estate I say, “You’re Philip, right?”
He glances in the rearview mirror.
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, Philip, do you know who you work for?”
“Ms. Sandoval? Of course.”
“You know what she does for a living?”
“I know that’s she’s in international finance.”
I wish I could see his eyes. It would help me know if he’s lying. His heartbeat’s up a little, but he’s not panicked. Just curious about getting the third degree from a stranger in the backseat.
There’s a small but well-stocked bar on the left wall of the limo. I find the bourbon and pour myself a few fingers. Look at Philip again in the rearview.
“You ever heard of Wormwood?”
He shakes his head. “No, sir. Should I?”
I try to think of a delicate way to ask the next question