“Like jail?”
“More like an iron box.”
“Well, bro, we ain’t letting that happen again.”
A few years before Chuey and I came to London, I got a showcase audition for Interscope Records. The day before the audition Chuey got picked up by the police—a battery charge for fighting off some gangbangers. But Chuey had two felonies already. The DA would have seen a pattern, tagged him with a felony, and given him his third strike. That could have meant real prison time. So, I went in and told them it was me. My clean record earned me a simple misdemeanor, but I was in lockup for three days and missed the audition. When I got out, Interscope had no time for a guy who’d been tangling with the law.
It had been quiet for too long—shadows of the past, shadows in the present. I think Chuey saw we were getting too deep in our heads about it all, because he turned the conversation to live shows—talking about concerts always pulled us from our funk. He fished a Barge House takeaway sack from his bag and handed me a sourdough egg and pepper biscuit, munching one himself. And while we ate, we spoke of Meshuggah and Testament and Vanden Plas and a dozen other concerts. But the ones I liked best were the ones with Chuey behind the sound or light console. He’d actually been the stadium lead for rock and metal at the Hollywood Bowl for several years. In fact, the killer new wraparound venue in Vegas—the Sphere—had contracted Chuey to consult on the audio and video design before we moved to London. He could make any show look and sound big.
In the middle of laughter over a Steel Panther show we’d seen, the Iron Horse door opened, and Cassius strode in through a wash of morning sunlight. He’d been walking patrol all night. He crossed to our table, said, “Good morning, gentlemen,” and gave each of us a forearm clasp before sitting beside me.
I pointed to Brach’s note. The centurion picked it up and inspected it front and back. “Intimidation.”
“This guy’s smart.” Chuey smiled.
“But that does not mean,” Cassius continued, “that Brach will not make good on the threat. And it is still a fight with unfavorable odds. We need a strategy.”
Chuey hunched his shoulders. “This dirtbag’s declaring war on you, Jack. And it’s lopsided because you don’t know as much about all this stuff.” He tapped the note in Cassius’s hands. “We’re going to need more than an undead Roman and our little knives. We need to recruit and gear up fast.” Both Chuey and Cassius had valid points. And I did need to find some catalysts soon, regardless. But I wasn’t feeling as lost as I had a day ago. I’d read quite a lot, learned to use living flame a little bit, and I could see into shadows more deeply each time I tried. Plus, I had Cassius, whom I’d already come to trust. And maybe most importantly, I now also had Emaline on my side. Or at least I thought I did. I’d know soon enough if she was playing me. “Okay, look,” I said, “the body of the shooter is going to turn up today, with its bindings from Brach intact. Bindings carry a pattern from the thanatist who created them. The body’s shadow will carry unique markings, too.”
Chuey and Cassius both nodded.
“So, when we’re contacted”—I took the note from Cassius—“we’ll collect the body, which will give us the evidence we need to prove Brach ordered the hit. That will clear me of any charges and stop this revolution cold. Meantime, I’ve found some help intrying to restore the Iron Horse ward against Brach—or anyone else, for that matter.”
Chuey’s eyes lit up. “Well, hot damn.”
Chuey had chosen to throw in with me on all this craziness. Now I turned to Cassius. “There’s always a third option,” I reminded him. “And you’ve now got another chance to stop an expansionist zealot. Help me fight.”
“Helpyou,” he said.
“And not because of your bindings.”
“He isasking?” Cassius said mostly to himself. I nodded, waiting.
His broad, angular face slid into a grin. “I very much like the sound of that.” We spent the next hour discussing what we should do with the body until we could produce it as evidence; then the door opened again. A man in a blue suit and tie, white shirt, and black shoes sauntered in.
I’d have guessed he was with the Metropolitan Police even if he hadn’t strolled up, holding out his badge.
“You must be Detective Bryant,” I said.
“That’s me, all right,” he replied with a Cockney accent. He gave Chuey and Cassius long looks before turning back to me. “You’re an ’ard man to find, Mr. Solomon. That’s a curious thing after you’ve been shot at and your best friend’s gone missing.”
“Where’s your partner?” I asked. “Don’t you guys usually work in pairs?” “Usually,” he said.“I’ve got a few questions, Mr. Solomon, if you don’t mind.”
I wasn’t looking forward to another grilling. The raptorial had tired me out.
“Of course,” I said.
He shook his head. “Not ’ere. I need you to ID a body.”
I nodded quickly to Cassius and Chuey. “All right.” I got up. Cassius and Chuey fell in behind me.
Bryant half turned. “You can bringonefriend. The Metropolitan Police is not in the business of ’osting social gaverings.”
“I’ve got some light-rigging prep to do for the festival, anyway,” Chuey said. “I’ll catch up with you later.”
Cassius and I followed the detective out. We picked up my car over on Greek Street where I kept it parked. It was an old Lada Riva, mostly grey Bondo at this point. I called her Old Lada.
Then, we headed to the morgue to identify the man who killed me.
